


The Grey Ones

by Kokapoptotenon



Series: The Chainbreaker [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Existentialism, F/M, Fantasy, Fictional Religion & Theology, Historical Fantasy, Identity, Interspecies Romance, Medieval Fantasy, Period-Typical Sexism, Politics, Romance, Sexual Content, Size Difference, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 57
Words: 118,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25334227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kokapoptotenon/pseuds/Kokapoptotenon
Summary: Vas-an lit basran. She listened to the foreign words, tasted them on her tongue, and was intrigued. "My lord, what does that mean?"The Vasaath settled his gaze upon her once again and said, with a hard and final tone, "order through submission. That is your first lesson."Those words, she understood.Order through submission. The phrase was as terrifying as it was final, but she curtsied again. "Thank you, my lord. I shall remember it.""You shall learn it."-----------Lady Juniper, the daughter of the Duke of Noxborough, becomes and ambassador of her people when the city is visited by an army of elite Kas warriors, the Demons of the North, the Grey Ones. Everyone knows an invasion is imminent, and it falls upon Juniper's shoulders to appease the foreign, giant, grey-skinned Warlord.When the two widely different cultures clash, Juniper discoveres that the world might not be as she always thought it was - or perhaps it will never change. War is in the air and when two unbendable forces meet, the one has to bow to the other, eventually.A story of war, self-discovery, and fobidden love,The Grey Onesopens up to a new world of tradition, lore, and adventure.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: The Chainbreaker [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834846
Comments: 30
Kudos: 16





	1. Overture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of the Chainbreaker series. The whole part is finished, just waiting to be published. I hope you like it! If you do, please **comment** or give **kudos**! 
> 
> This story can also be found on **Inkitt**!
> 
> Find it here:  
> https://www.inkitt.com/stories/fantasy/575677

** OVERTURE **

  
The Free City of Noxborough, resting on the northernmost shore of Nornest, guarding the vast but forlorn Winter Sea, was a merchant city and wealthy on its own accord. The proud and ancient House Arlington was its ward, ruling the Dukedom with the same ferocity as their white Osprey sigil ruled the seas.

Merchants from all over the world docked in the large harbour to restock their supplies and have a few nights’ rests ashore before heading out onto the vast seas again—but no one truly cared about the city in itself. No one ever thought of staying in such a dreadful place, so far north, and Noxborough thus became a necessary but easily forgotten centre at the edge of the world. It was by no means a small settlement, with a population of about ten thousand northerners—but it was certainly not a grandiose metropolis like the ones in the warmer climates. It had its own set of nobles, gentry, merchants, townsfolk, civilians and criminals; it had its politics, scandals, and uprisings; stories, history, and traditions. All in all, it was a city like any other, bustling with life despite its lack of finery and grace. Yet, many other cities and countries looked down upon the northerners—the people of Noxborough were superstitious and were said to believe in every hobgoblin and gremlin. But every man and woman in the northern city knew that beyond the Winter Sea lay the shores of the White Void.

The tales were not uncommon for any Edredian. The cold tundra was where the souls of the fallen soldiers had to fight their last battle against the demons of the Netherworld that roamed the shores, demons only the righteous could defeat to enter the Void and join the afterlife with the Builder himself. For the cities and kingdoms further south, this was nothing but a story, a legend preserved by the soldiers out of tradition, but to the people of the North, the notion that there was _something_ out there across the vast ocean was but a fact. The demons were real.

The first of them came in very small numbers, long before the Kingdom of Nornest had fallen. Grey-skinned, strong warriors with golden eyes were scouted in some of the northernmost settlements. They were seemingly peaceful but terrifyingly large. One hand could easily crush the skull of a man; their teeth were those of predators and their nails grew like claws; their ears were pointed at the tip and their tongue was that of nightmarish growls. Their skin was adorned with black shapes and symbols, and some of them had their ears decorated with silver and golden rings. Despite their peaceful manner, they were armed to the teeth and dressed in thick black leather armour. They knew the common tongue and spoke fluently and gracefully with dark voices and hard accents. They called themselves the _Kas,_ the Grey Ones from the great island of Kasarath, and said they had come to discover new land.

When the fear of the strange men had settled, curiosity arose. Were these strange creatures truly demons? Were they truly children of the Netherworld? They had strange and stern teachings about ethics and conduct. They had firm beliefs in duty and honour and believed that order was the only thing preventing chaos from ripping through societies. They believed in callings and fate, and that everyone had an important destiny to fulfil. There was no currency, no riches, but they seemed well-fed and well-supplied nonetheless. Surely, the people thought, they would find no such reason and rationality with demons.

Their teachings spoke to many of the lower class citizens of Noxborough—those too poor to live decent lives felt an appeal in not needing money or connections—and many decided to follow the foreigners, despite not knowing whether or not they would be dragged down to the Netherworld for it.

As the years went by, the northerners had grown accustomed to the strange grey giants, and the talks of demons slowly ebbed away. But then came the War of the Kings, a war that would shatter the country into six independent cities, and Noxborough called upon the Grey Ones for help. With the King dead, and with no heirs to take his place, House Arlington was convinced they were the rightful rulers of Nornest. With the help of the grey giants, they would surely win. But the Grey Ones declined—the fight was not theirs—and left, finding the land too corrupted by greed and chaos, and swore to never return.

For hundreds of years, the Kas stayed away, and the stories from the scorned Noxborough spread across former Nornest and all the way to the Southern Reach of Illyria, about the vile and terrifying beasts from the Netherworld. Soon, the last true testimony of the Grey Ones ever being in Nornest faded, and they became nothing but stories and legends, and the people simply forgot their brief friendship with the strange culture.

So it was, that every child born after the War of the Kings was frightened by the stories of the Demons of the North. Most monsters would stay on the shores of the White Void, but not the Grey Ones. They would come at night, like shadows, and take the children from their beds and devour them. Not even the bravest of seafarers would dare venture into the Winter Sea, frightened of what truly might lie beyond it.

During a terrible storm, one merchant found himself washed up on a strange shore. It belonged to Kasarath, a big and beautiful island with bursting summers when the sun would never set, and raging winters when the sun would never rise. The legends were true, but the creatures weren’t monsters or demons. They were warriors, farmers, traders, and everything in between. The merchant stayed for many years, converting to their faith and philosophy, before making his way back to Noxborough to share his extraordinary tale. Soon, other brave merchants wanted to see the island and its riches for themselves, for there could very well be fortunes to be made. At times, the merchants brought with them a Grey One, and each time, a few more of the citizens were entranced by the promise of a prosperous life and converted to the Kas teachings and settled on Kasarath.

For years, the exchange was simple and peaceful despite the frightening stories and legends. It seemed as though the history they had all forgotten were to be repeated—but then came the Day of Reckoning, the day when the grey warriors landed on the shores of Noxborough, and there was no mistake in what they truly wanted.

* * *


	2. The Visitors: I

** I **

  
Lord Richmond Arlington, Duke of Noxborough, never thought he’d see the day when he had to greet the Grey Warlord himself. The day was dreary and the situation was dire. A cold, northern wind had swept over the shores, and the ocean was restless. A storm was brewing. It was uncommon this time of year—usually, early summer was a time of sunshine and stillness. These uninvited visitors had certainly angered the Builder. The Grey Ones had occupied a large area down in the harbour, including the fort, without permission or any regard for the city’s shipping traffic. They had announced that they had come to negotiate Lord Arlington’s submission. Why the grey beasts suddenly threatened with war was beyond the Duke, and the mere thought that he would submit to their ridiculous rules was laughable. But Richmond knew his army was hardly an army at all, and he’d better accommodate the beast-men. This was a delicate matter that required cunning and list. That was why he hadn’t sent his forces to drive the invaders off just yet. He had, however, persisted that the warlord would come to his castle at Fairgarden, but the invitation was declined. The Duke himself had to come to the harbour.

Rain was imminent. Richmond wanted this done as soon as possible so that he could return to Fairgarden before the heavens opened their gates. His advisor, Garret, attempted to instruct him how to properly greet and speak to the Grey Ones, but Richmond found the whole notion ridiculous—why would he, a Duke, an ancestor of the great and ancient line of Nornest Kings, have to bow to a foreign warlord, an _intruder_? Why would he have to submit to their savage ways of life? Did they not have enough? Why would they want a city like Noxborough when there were plenty of better choices further south?

Although the reappearance of the grey demons many years prior had been terrifying, the ones that now had occupied the docks in Noxborough seemed positively lethal, as though they had stepped straight out from the Netherworld. A familiar dread crawled under the Duke’s skin. It was the same fear he used to feel as a boy listening to the horror stories about the Demons of the North. These were no ambassadors—these were warriors. _Killers_. Richmond felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck as he made it through the encampment towards the large tent in the middle of the fort. He made sure his guards were close to him, ready to fight.

They were greeted by a noticeably smaller Grey One who bowed deeply. “ _Vahanan_ , Lord Arlington, Duke of Noxborough,” said the grey man smoothly. “Let me introduce our _Vasaath_ , our general and military leader.” The beast backed away while still in a deep bow, and out of the tent strode an enormous Grey One. He was taller than the rest of them, stronger, with yellow eyes that echoed death and carnage.

Richmond didn’t notice that he had backed away until he slammed into his guards.

“Duke.” The Grey One’s voice was dark and resonating, lacking any amusement or novelty.

“Warlord.” Richmond tried to straighten, tried to look unfazed, as pearls of sweat quickly formed on his forehead.

“You have come to submit.” It wasn’t a question, but neither was it an outright statement.

Richmond took a deep breath. “I have not come to submit. I have not come to yield. This is my city and you have no right to take it by force.”

The general stood stoically, but then he moved with an ease that seemed unnatural for such a large creature. “I don’t think you’ve quite understood our demands. We are not here to take the city by force—we are here to embrace it as it submits to us. We have come to restore order to this chaos, this discrepancy.”

“You have never been interested in Noxborough before,” said Richmond. “How come you’ve suddenly decided to _invade_?”

The Grey One clenched his jaw in annoyance and placed his hands behind his back. “You might have forgotten our common history, but we have not. The tormented souls of this city have cried out to us, and we have heard them. For centuries we believed that the people of the mainland were… ill-equipped, to understand our philosophies and receive our teachings. Now, after years and years of awakening the people of these cursed lands, we understand that you are ready to receive us. The land is ready to heal.”

Without being able to help it, Richmond snorted out a laugh. “Ready to heal?” But he immediately composed himself. “I believe there might be a peaceful solution to this that neither involves you annexing the city nor me… submitting.”

The warlord furrowed his dark brows. “And what do you have in mind?”

The question, even though it should have been anticipated, caught Richmond by surprise. He had nothing in mind, except for a long list of very inappropriate words he wanted to yell at the large creature before him.

Luckily, Garret stepped in. “My lord, perhaps it is best if we draw up a few suggestions for you to consider, as a peace treaty? Perhaps we could be able to offer you a piece of land to set up a religious establishment? The Duke must negotiate with the High Council as well. It might take some time, but you are more than welcome to stay here for the time being.”

The general, the _Vasaath_ , as he was called _,_ turned a glaring eye to the advisor. Then, after a few moments of intense glaring, he nodded. “Very well. But I would like you to send me an ambassador—a highborn—who can teach me the history and the ways of your people, and whom I can, in return, attempt to teach our ways. That way I will know if you are truly ready to join us…” He looked at the Duke. “Or if the land needs to be cleansed from you, the corruption, once and for all.”

Richmond wanted to shout at the large man, tell him that he was a fool—an arrogant fool who thought _they_ were “the corruption”. How dared these grey monsters come to _his_ city and tell him that _he_ was the corruption? However, before he had time to lose his temper, Garret bowed to the general and said, “an ambassador will be sent down here by tomorrow at noon. We must be reassured, of course, that our ambassador will be well received and respected and that you will hold off any attacks until our suggestions have been presented.”

The general glared at the two men with an unfazed expression. “Your ambassador will be safe with us. No harm will come to whomever you send as long as he is our guest and under our tutorage. We will also refrain from any attacks during your time of… contemplation.”

Garret looked at Richmond for conformation, and when the Duke gave a slight nod, Garret turned back to the Vasaath and bowed. “Excellent.”

Looking down his nose, the Grey One said, “ _parthanan_ , humans,” as he waved his hand at them dismissingly and returned to his tent.

Richmond and Garret were ushered to leave. Two burly Grey Ones saw them to the gates of the encampment, and just as the rain started to fall, Richmond and Garret entered their carriage. The four guards that accompanied them sat upon their horses and the party returned to Fairgarden. Well back inside the castle, Richmond barked all the obscenities he had kept to himself in the encampment.

“Who does he think he is?” he growled. “That fucking beast-man thinks that he can come to my city and demand my submission? He thinks he can _frighten_ me? He can kiss my royal arse!”

“My lord, I think we might have to be cautious,” said Garret. “They don’t send the Grey Warlord for nothing.”

Richmond muttered as he strode up the stairs and into his study. Garret followed closely behind. “Well, do they really think they could annex the city with a hundred men? They’re outnumbered ten to one!”

“My lord,” Garret said, “our guards are indeed competent… but this is the general and his elite warriors. Builder knows what cursed powers they possess! If they decide to attack us, we won’t be able to withstand it for that long. And who knows how many more are on the way?”

Despite the anger that was still raging within, Richmond sat down behind his writing desk and pondered. “So, we need to stall them and send for more guards. I am certain the rest of the Free Cities will come to our aid once they know that foreign invaders are at our doorstep.”

“I agree,” said Garret and nodded, “but we will have to tread lightly on this, as well. It’s no secret that our relationships with the other cities have… deteriorated over the years.”

Richmond gave his advisor a dark look.

Garret bowed. “But I will send word of it. We also need to send them an ambassador by tomorrow. Who should we send, my lord?”

“Someone who can occupy them,” said Richmond. “Someone eager to learn.”

“Someone clever.” Garret closed his hands behind his back. “But not someone so clever he understands we are going to stall them. It needs to be someone who stalls them unknowingly.”

Richmond nodded. “Yes… the less that ambassador knows, the better, but we need one that will be completely loyal to us, but someone who won’t know too much. A woman should suffice—a woman’s curiosity is eternal, and slow wit undefeated.”

Garret shifted awkwardly before carefully saying, “my lord, I know this might be a bold suggestion, but what about Lady Juniper?”

The Duke glared at his advisor. “Why would I send my _daughter_ on a diplomatic mission? Besides, they are men who are probably starved for a fuck.”

“They might be arrogant and stoic, but they value rules and honour promises above all,” said Garret. “Lady Juniper would be perfectly safe, and would surely be loyal to her beloved father, my lord. She’s also very intelli—”

“Enough.” Richmond furrowed his brows. “She is easy enough on the eyes, I _suppose_. At least, she isn’t ugly. That ought to mean something—they are still males, are they not, even though they are beasts?”

Garret shifted awkwardly. “I… am not sure about their custom, my lord.”

The Duke weaved his fingers together and placed them upon his chin before he leaned back in his chair in deep consideration.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Vahanan** – _welcome;_ “I receive you”  
**Vasaath** – _general_ ; military leader; “Leader of Strength and Protection”  
**Parthanan** – _goodbye_ ; “it is done”, “that will do”


	3. The Visitors: II

** II **

  
Never in her life had she received such an important mission. Lady Juniper Arlington, the daughter of the Duke of Noxborough, was often overlooked in matters of diplomacy, despite her attentiveness and hard work. That responsibility was often placed upon her brother—although young and brash, Lord Sebastian Arlington was to be the next ruler of the city, after all.

Now, the future of the city seemed to lie on Juniper’s shoulders. She was to teach the foreigners the way of the continent, but these weren’t just any foreigners. These were the Kas, the Grey Ones, the Northern Demons, and she was to be taught of their ways as well. Despite having heard quite the tall tales about them, she was slightly acquainted with the militaristic and stern belief of the Kas; she knew that it was grounded in respect and obedience, but she did not know the details of their philosophy. She was, however, incurably curious. There was, of course, a very serious element of fear, as well; she, like any other Edredian, had grown up listening to the terrible stories about the Grey Ones—how they killed the brave soldiers, and how they kidnapped the children from their beds and feasted on their flesh. Juniper knew, naturally, that they were only tales told to frighten women and children, but they were indeed frightening. She would have to try to have an open mind and a tolerant attitude. Wanting to properly represent her own culture, she wore her nicest robes and her prettiest golden jewellery. Red and gold, those were the colours of Noxborough, and she was wearing them proudly.

She was escorted by carriage to the harbour where she was led to the Kas encampment by four City Guards. She was nervous and frightened, but also excited and curious. As she stood in front of the gates to the fort, guarded by two of the foreigners, she felt awestruck by the size of the men with grey skin and golden eyes. They, on the other hand, did not seem very impressed by the human visitors. She and her guards were let inside, where more of the grey-skinned beasts were housed. There were some other humans there as well, but they were all wearing strange clothing, face paint, ink, and hairdressings—clearly, they were converters, and they didn’t seem very impressed by the noble lady and her guards either.

She was escorted to a large tent deep within the fort. The City Guards surrounding her were all clasping at their sword-hilts, and she could see gleams of sweat on their brows in the sunlight. By the tent, a smaller and slenderer Grey One, dressed in a long, emerald green robe, met them with a deep bow.

“ _Vahanan, ohkas-enaan_ ,” said the Grey One, his voice dark but pleasant, and smooth like velvet. “Welcome, stranger of importance.” He straightened and looked at Juniper, and she was surprised to see so much _humanity_ in his features and countenance. “I am Kasethen, the advisor of the Vasaath.”

Juniper curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you, Kasethen. I am Lady Juniper Arlington, daughter of Lord Richmond Arlington, Duke of Noxborough.”

Kasethen smiled and bowed again. “This way, my lady. The Vasaath is waiting to receive you.” He opened up heavy curtains that led into the vast tent, and Juniper swallowed deeply before she entered, closely followed by her guards.

The tent was spacious and strangely silent. Through the thick, crimson fabric, she could barely hear the screaming seagulls or the furious ocean. Thick rugs covered the dirt floor, and thick veils parted the tent into rooms in the back. The air was filled with foreign spices, pleasant to the senses. In the middle of the large open space, stood a low, wooden table, and further down from it, on a slightly raised podium, stood a large bench that looked like driftwood. On it sat a man, a Grey One, built like a titan, with striking features and burning golden eyes. Juniper had to grab hold of one of her guards’ arms, lest she would stumble backwards. The grey man on the bench looked powerful and menacing, but regal and unobtainable. His strong face was unreadable, but his gaze was direct and demanding. Black hair coiled in a thick braid over the top of his head and over one of his muscled shoulders, reaching down to his waist. Black leather shielded his broad shoulders, but his chest was bare save for the leather harness holding his pauldrons and the black ink that crawled like vines over his toned shape and ash grey skin in strange markings and sharp symbols. His massive hands rested on his knees and extended into clawed fingertips blackened by soot.

Juniper had never seen such a man in her entire life. There was less humanity in this man’s face than in Kasethen’s, but there was a magnificence to it she had rarely seen before; frightening, judgmental, but striking. She was fascinated and horrified, and for a moment, she couldn’t even move. Neither did he, the Vasaath. His eyes seared into hers, like a branding iron, and she was eventually forced to divert her gaze as she curtsied as deeply and graciously as she could before carefully returning her gaze to the general.

Kasethen had entered the tent and swiftly joined the Vasaath. He said something in their foreign tongue to the great man on the bench before backing away, but Juniper had at least recognised her own name being said.

The general tilted his head ever so slightly and said, “ _vahanan, oh ma-kas._ I receive you, stranger.” His voice was deep and dark, and not at all as friendly as Kasethen’s—but pleasant nonetheless. He then motioned his large hand to invite her to come closer.

She felt her heart race. Every grain in her body told her to run as fast as her legs would allow, but she obliged the warlord and cautiously walked closer.

“You are here to learn the Kasenon, the philosophy of the people,” said the Vasaath.

Juniper nodded. “Y-yes, my lord. It will be my honour to learn of your ways.”

“Yes,” said he and nonchalantly inspected the City Guards inside his tent, “you should feel honoured. When you are ready, you will come to see the truth in our ways. _Vas-an lit basran_.”

She listened to the foreign words, tasted them on her tongue, and was intrigued. “My lord, what does that mean?”

The Vasaath settled his gaze upon her once again and said, with a hard and final tone, “‘order through submission’. That is your first lesson.”

Those words, she understood—but she had to admit that the foreign words had been more pleasant to hear, for she had not understood the meaning behind them then. Now, when she did, coldness spread through her body and into her very core. _Order through submission_. The phrase was as terrifying as it was final, but she curtsied again. “Thank you, my lord. I shall remember it.”

“You shall learn it,” the Vasaath said. Then, he rose from his bench, revealing his full height.

Juniper gasped as she backed straight into one of the guards. The general was a giant—large but proportionate. Studded leather straps fell from the thick belt at his waist and shielded his long legs. The full texture of his muscled torso was revealed as he stood, and the black ink was displayed like a work of art. He stepped down from the small podium and stood only a few feet away from Juniper as he looked down on her. She tried to look composed, but she pressed herself closer to the guard behind her.

The Vasaath growled something in his language, and Kasethen then said, “the Vasaath wishes to speak with the lady in private. I must ask the guards to come with me.”

The four men hesitated, but Juniper nodded and the men disappeared from the tent together with Kasethen. Suddenly alone with the giant, Juniper felt strangely small and unprotected. She closed her hands on her chest, swallowed hard, and waited for the warlord to speak.

He turned from her and moved to the lowered table. He folded his long legs underneath his body and sat down. He stretched out an arm to the seat next to him as an invitation.

She hesitated and felt her cheeks redden before she cleared her throat and joined him. “I find the fragrance in here very pleasant. It seems like spices, although I’m afraid I don’t know which ones.”

The Vasaath gave a decided nod. “It is Redroot from Kasarath you’re scenting. I have it for tea every morning.”

She smiled swiftly. “It smells wonderful.” She was raised right and was talented in politeness and small-talk, like any lady. “I remember my first taste of spices. I was only a child then, but we had just received a shipment from the Illyrian Empire; greenleaf, appleberries, rosewater—”

“ _Bas, ohkas_!” the Vasaath suddenly exclaimed. “Enough!”

Juniper silenced at once and dropped her gaze.

“I am not interested in sentimental drabble,” said he. “Tell me, do you worship? And look at me when I speak to you.”

She was suddenly confused, but gazed up immediately. Was he expecting a theological discussion? She shrugged. “I suppose so. I worship just like any other Edredian.”

“That was not my question.” His golden eyes burned.

Juniper pondered for a moment, before she asked, “my lord, do you wish to know if I _believe_?”

The Vasaath nodded with an approving grunt.

This was indeed a serious question; Juniper knew not what to answer. She thought about it for a moment longer before finally saying, “it would be foolish of me—of anyone, even though many people do—to blindly trust in the scriptures of the Builder. Not even Edred himself followed them, but does that mean I do not believe?” She wondered for a moment more, her brows knitting in the process. “I would rather claim that I am…” She let her eyes trace the textures of the ceiling of the tent while searching for the right words. “…cautiously positive that there is a higher power we cannot comprehend.”

The Vasaath furrowed his strong brows. “But do you not agree that it is irresponsible to put your faith in the hands of a power you believe to be too immense to even comprehend?”

Juniper smiled softly. “Perhaps. But it’s also comforting to believe there is something out there watching over us, protecting us from evil and despair.”

“Yet there is plenty of evil and despair in this world.” The Vasaath’s words were cold but heavy.

“Indeed,” said she, “but that does not change, no matter our beliefs.”

The general lifted his chin and looked down his nose as he said, “the Kasenon teaches us that the state of the world is our responsibility, and that we have to accept our nature and restrain it. Evil exists because we are inherently evil. Despair exists because we are inherently despairing. Those features exist in every living thing and will be expressed unless we restrain them in ourselves. We are but our own protectors.” His eyes suddenly darkened. “You, however, with your delusions of a deity, puts that responsibility on that deity to ridden yourself from it. You believe evil exists as a menace, as something that was born in the shadow of your Builder, as something you need protection from. Not as something you control.”

She clasped her jaw together. She had never seen herself as a firm devotee of the Vault and the Pillars, of the Builder, but the way he spoke about the very idea of a deity was cold and harsh. She tried to find something diplomatic to say before speaking, and then said, “it must be exhausting to put so much on your shoulders. We are but people, after all. Flawed and chaotic. I believe _that_ is inherent in us all, and we would collapse if we were to blame ourselves for what we cannot change. Besides, to believe that there is a deity that tells us that we are all created equal is rather comforting at times.”

He seemed to ponder for a moment, his brows pressed tightly together; a vertical line had formed on his forehead and he gracefully leaned his elbow onto the table. “What is your age, _ohkas_?”

Juniper shifted slightly. Had she said something inappropriate? “I am two and twenty, my lord.”

“You speak with stark certainty, despite your modest age,” said the general. His voice hadn’t changed, but his words echoed with impress. “I did not expect that.”

She felt her cheeks flush again and she looked down. “My lord, why are you interested in whether or not I believe in the Builder?”

“I need to understand your standpoint,” said he, “your basic code of conduct. You’re exterior shows only half the truth—I need your thoughts.”

“And what is your verdict?” She tried to read his face, but it was stern and cold.

He leaned back and examined her meticulously. Juniper felt flushed by the burning scrutiny. When he finally spoke, she truly felt judged. “Your family sigil, the Osprey, is a powerful and hardworking bird, but you seem to relish in your lavish life. You have never worked a day in your life, have you? You live a life of plenty, silk and gold, while many of your people are starving on the streets. There is a rift, but you don’t care. This is, as I understand, contradictory to your faith which claims that every living soul is equal in the eyes of the Builder.”

She suddenly felt awfully aware of the heavy gold adorning her neck.

“Of course,” he then said, “you might not be the one to blame for such greed—I am sure you’ve had nothing to worry about through your childhood. It’s easy to believe that everyone is created equal when you have everything and don’t have to acknowledge the misery your social structure causes.”

She started feeling quite faint. She took a ragged breath. “Why do you say such things?”

“I only wish to understand why your people persist on putting your faith in something as unfathomable as the Builder, instead of something as concrete as the Kasenon.”

Juniper sighed, slightly angered by his assault. “My lord, why do you persist on proving yourself right, instead of respecting that we have different views of the world? I was under the impression that _that_ was an important tenet in your philosophy? Respect?”

His golden eyes narrowed, his body stiffened. A guttural growl escaped him as he said, his voice thunderous, “do not speak of what you cannot understand. You do not know the weight of respect through the Kasenon, _ohkas oh ma-aamon_.”

She couldn’t understand his words, but she felt the burning resentment in his voice. She prepared herself to run, to flee, and yet she couldn’t seem to move. Her heart was hammering in her chest, she could barely breathe, and her head was screaming at her to get away—at least from his reach—but she remained seated, frozen in place.

But the Vasaath only waved his hand dismissingly at her, with a disgusted frown, and muttered, “ _bas, parthanan_. Get out of my sight.”

She was bewildered and confused, but she did not need to hear it twice. At his command, her body awoke and she scurried to her feet and left the tent as quickly as she could. She cared not of the ones standing outside the tent and had it not been for Kasethen, she would have rushed out of that encampment without ever looking back.

“ _Ohkas-enaan_! My lady!” He bowed. “I take it your lesson with the Vasaath is over for today?”

Juniper had to halt, and as she did, she felt her head spin. Luckily, her guards were immediately by her side and let her lean into one of them. “I’m afraid…” she started, but her voice faltered. She had failed. Was this a declaration of war? Was this what would make the Free City of Noxborough fall under the rule of the Kas? She swallowed. “I’m afraid I won’t be coming back for another lesson, Kasethen.”

He seemed shocked. “I… I do not understand.”

“Your Vasaath seems displeased with me.” As the words escaped her mouth, the guards seemed to tense and move in closer to protect their lady.

Kasethen’s face fell, and he bowed. “I am sorry, my lady. Please, allow me to have a word with him. Return tomorrow, _ohkas-enaan_ , at noon.”

She hesitated, but nodded reluctantly. “Very well.” She curtsied and then begged her guards to escort her out of the encampment. Her legs were unstable and her heart was still pounding. She wondered, in blind fear, if the Vasaath was to launch his terrible invasion while the city was sleeping.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Bas –** _enough; stop;_ “no more”  
**Ohkas –** (oh ma-kas); _stranger;_ “not of Kas”; “not of the people”  
**Ohkas-enaan** – foreigner of importance; “not of Kas but of great importance”  
**Ohkas oh ma-aamon –** dishonourable stranger; “unworthy of the will of the people”  
**Vas-an lit basran** – “order through submission”


	4. The Visitors: III

** III **

  
The Vasaath never expected someone from the mainland, someone who benefitted from the unfairness and savagery of the Faith of the Builder, to understand the philosophy of the People. Not at first, at least. But this woman, this _girl_ , insulted him too easily. Dressed in red silk and lavish golden jewellery, she was hardly an advocate of the people. He should have known the moment he had laid his eyes on her elegant form, that her privileges were too great for her to understand the fairness and the correctness of the philosophy; beauty, in this case, was not a valuable virtue. He should have known—the _ohkasenon_ , those who converted to the philosophy, did it because they saw the unfairness of the Builder and recognised the philosophy as the solution. But they were not the corrupted ones. His fleeting conversation with the girl had convinced him that there was no use in trying to bargain with these people. Better to scorch the land to let it heal than to attempt to salvage the little that was left to hold on to.

His brooding thoughts were interrupted by Kasethen as he entered the tent. He bowed and said, “forgive me, strong leader, but I understand your meeting with the lady did not go as planned?”

The Vasaath grunted. “I have no intention of trying to persuade someone who wasn’t ready to learn.”

“But, my lord, don’t you think you judged the girl too soon?” Kasethen sat down by the table. “You mustn’t be offended if she said inappropriate things. The women of these lands aren’t trained in matters of diplomacy.”

“No,” said the Vasaath, “they aren’t, and they have their faith to thank for that. And yet, not even a woman so repressed as to not be trusted with matters of intelligence can see the faults in her faith. There is no hope here, Kasethen. This land is cursed, and we need to rid it of that curse.”

Kasethen seemed to carefully choose what next to say, and just as well—he ought to know the Vasaath did not have much patience with the mainlanders to begin with. Finally, he said, “my lord, I advise you to give the girl a second chance. She is the daughter of the Duke, and thus she holds much authority. I have made the _kaseraad_ make inquiries around the city, and she is very well respected amongst the citizens, more so than her brother, the Duke’s successor. If you can convert her, the sheep will follow.”

The Vasaath considered this. It was true what the Kasethen said, that if the girl indeed possessed the love and respect of the common people, she would be the perfect pilgrim. But he was no teacher, and he was certainly no _Vasenon_ —it was not his role to teach the philosophy to those who did not understand it. The Vasenon was, however, far from Noxborough. He grunted again and glared at Kasethen. “You do it. You teach the girl.”

Kasethen’s eyes widened. “Me? My lord, that would not be proper.”

The Vasaath shrugged. “You and I are equally equipped to teach a stranger. You have indeed the better temperament and patience to do so. You are, after all, a _kasethen_.”

“But you have the authority,” Kasethen concluded. “I am but an advisor. A _saath-kasethen_ , not an _enon-kasethen_. It is much less my role to teach the philosophy, than yours.”

The Vasaath sighed deeply and rubbed his temples. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am glad you think so,” said the advisor, “because I told the lady to return tomorrow at noon.”

The Vasaath raised a brow. “Did you, now? Well, you seem confident in your abilities to persuade me. Good. Now, bring me my tea.”

“Yes, my lord.” Shortly after, Kasethen served him a large cup of Redroot tea but he still seemed trouble.

“Out with it, Kasethen.”

The advisor sighed. “My lord, I would not wish to impose on your methods, but perhaps it would be wise for you to treat the girl with kindness henceforth? I believe that appeals to these people, and especially womenfolk.”

The Vasaath glared at the man. “And I am not kind?”

Kasethen widened his eyes. “Of course you are, my lord! I just meant—”

The Vasaath huffed. “Enough. I know what you meant. And yes, perhaps I spoke too harshly with the girl.” He sighed. “It sickens me to find so much fragility in these lands.”

“I believe it is but custom,” said Kasethen. “They often tremble at the slightest notion of dominance and power. Perhaps you would do well to speak with the lady in a softer manner.”

The Vasaath grunted disapprovingly.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Ohkasenon** – foreign follower of the Kasenon; “follower of the faith of the people but not of the people”  
 **Kasethen** – _advisor; seer;_ “wisdom of the people”  
 **Saath-kasethen** – military advisor  
 **Enon-kasethen** – scholarly advisor  
 **Vasenon** – chief philosopher; “Leader of the Philosophy”


	5. The Visitors: IV

** IV **

  
Her father didn’t even look at her while he greedily ate his supper. “So,” he said, “how did your meeting with the invaders go?”

Juniper shifted in her seat and looked down onto her plate. The food did not look very appetising at the moment. “It went… well, I think.”

“So, no invasion yet?”

She gritted her teeth—she certainly hoped not. “I am to see him tomorrow as well, Father. Hopefully, we will begin to understand each other better.”

This brought the attention of the Duke who stopped chewing to look at his daughter. “You did not agree today?”

“He asked about my faith, and I expressed my opinion.”

Redness was spreading from his neck up to his ears. “Opinion?” The low, choking voice always came before the bellowing. “ _Opinion_? I did not send you down to our _enemies_ to express your silly _opinions_! You silly, _silly_ woman! It’s just typical, isn’t it? Never send a woman to do a man’s job, you make that very clear, my dear girl!”

Her heart raced, and she had to catch her breath. “Father, I did not—”

“Now, what if they slit our throats in our sleep?” he continued. “What if they kill every child? Rape every woman? They can have _you_ , for all I care!”

Juniper felt tears prickle behind her eyes. The viciousness of her father always peaked when he had had one too many drinks of wine. Garret, his always present advisor, leaned in to tell the Duke to calm down, but her father’s face was already scarlet and he flung his chewed chicken bone across the table.

“I will not calm down! I knew we signed our own death warrants the minute we considered my incompetent daughter to do the work of a diplomat!”

Juniper could take it no longer. She lowered her napkin to the table and left the dining hall, as calmly as she possibly could. She held it together until she had locked herself in her room, and then she cried. She fell onto her bed, sobbing uncontrollably. This day had been disastrous. Absolutely disastrous. She was used to being put down by her father—Builder knew how many times her father had yelled at her and called her incompetent—but what made matters worse was that she actually _felt_ incompetent. She knew she shouldn’t have said what she did to the general, she shouldn’t have been bold and retorted sharply. She should have obliged and nodded, just like her mother had always told her to do, and perhaps she would be in his good graces, if there were any.

When she closed her eyes, she saw his gaze—those golden eyes that burned through her like vicious cinder. Even in her room, high up in Fairgarden, far away from the docks, she felt flustered by his eyes. Through her tears, she cursed at herself for having such a weak heart. She tried to focus on something else, to rid her mind of any thoughts of the Vasaath and his wretched eyes, but all that kept rushing through her mind was the horrifying sounds of screaming townsfolk as the Kas army tore the city to shreds. She wondered if she had any chance at all of rectifying the mistake she had made that day, if the Vasaath was as forgiving as he was terrifying. She doubted it.

That night, she barely slept. The little sleep she had was riddled with nightmares and when she was ushered up by her chambermaid, she felt as though she had been run over by a coach with four horses. She had her breakfast in the gardens and turned to some reading afterwards. There was an old, dusty book in the library about the Kas and their philosophy and even though she wouldn’t be able to read it all before noon, she could at least claim some knowledge on the subject.

She was far more worried today than she was yesterday. The red silk robe did no longer feel appropriate, and neither did the golden jewellery. The general had been right—she had been blind. The rift between the rich and poor was enormous. Due to her father’s aggressive taxes, the richer became richer, and the poorer only became poorer. Sickness was spreading, crime was escalating, and the discontentment of the people was growing. Small uprisings were getting more and more common, and as a result, the Duke had granted the City Guard more violent authority. Her father only said that commotion like that came and went—it always had done so, and always would. It was nothing to worry about, so Juniper had tried not to worry.

But she was all too aware of the unfortunate people of the city, and yet, she didn’t do all in her power to change anything. She tried, indeed, but she was only a woman in a city ruled by men and sovereigns. When her brother received important diplomatic missions, she was given the more… _sensitive_ tasks, such as charity and representation, things that held no true power. She had always known that her work was worth nothing. Surely, she could bring some gold from the treasury to hand out after Week Mass, but that would never be enough. She knew she lived in luxury while most people lived in poverty, and she would be lying if she said that she would trade it all for equality. She lived a very comfortable life, and seeing the misery of the poor made her feel sad, yes, but also very lucky. Now, she just felt ashamed.

She dressed in a plain, green frock, put her dark hair in a simple braided bun, and refrained from any glittery accessories. She allowed herself to adorn her neck with a simple golden necklace of the Hammer of Edred, the only thing she had left of her mother. She put on her woollen cloak and headed down to the outer courtyard where four guards were waiting. They were all looking rather nervous. When they arrived at the encampment, in a convoy of five horses, they were met by Kasethen and two massive warriors, one of which had manners enough to help the lady dismount.

“ _Vahanan_ , Lady Juniper,” said Kasethen and bowed. “I am delighted to see you again. Please.” He motioned her to enter the fort, but as she had passed him, he stopped the guards. “I am afraid you have to stay out here.”

Juniper quickly hurried back to the armoured, nervous men and turned to Kasethen. “They are my personal guards, Kasethen. They are with me everywhere I go.”

The advisor smiled. “I respect that, my lady, but you are perfectly safe inside our domain. You are under the protection of the Vasaath and his _Saathenaan_. No harm will come to you, as according to our customs.”

She wrung her hands together and swallowed, looked at her guards and then back to Kasethen. “Very well. But please, make sure they are comfortable out here.”

Kasethen nodded. “ _Parthanan_ , it is done. Now.” He motioned her again to enter the fort, and she gave her guards an apologising look. She was terrified of leaving them behind, but she did trust Kasethen. If he said that she would be safe, she trusted that she would be. The Kas warriors seemed to try to ignore her presence, but few succeeded. Even humans ignored her with intent. She heard them whisper, but it was all in their own tongue and she didnʼt understand any of it.

She was lead to the great crimson tent and at once, she felt her pulse rise. She kept wringing her hands together, faster and faster, and she had to take a deep breath before she could enter. She felt so small, so insignificant, as she once again stood inside the immense billowing structure. The Vasaath was standing by his desk, his black armour making him look even wider, and turned as Kasethen announced Juniper’s arrival.

“ _Shokaan, kasethen venaas_.” The Vasaath nodded at Kasethen and then he turned his golden gaze to the human girl who thought she would crumble under his stare. Then, he nodded at her, courteously. “Lady Juniper.”

The way her name rolled off his tongue made her legs tremble. She looked down and curtsied deeply. “Vasaath.”

He moved with surprising ease despite his mountainous build. He stopped a few feet from her and gestured her to the table. “Sit.”

She quickly obliged—she wouldn’t dare to defy him. Surely, she thought, he would reprimand her for what she said the day before. She lowered herself by the same place as yesterday. The Vasaath sat down next to her, and being this close to him, she could feel his scent—leather and spices. She hadn’t noticed it before.

“I realise that I might have been too harsh last we spoke,” he said. “It was unfair of me to judge you so harshly. It is not your fault your city is starving, I recognise that.”

Juniper looked down on her hands, not wanting to reveal her surprise. “Thank you, my lord.”

There was silence for a moment before the Vasaath spoke again. “You are dressed much more moderately today, I see. It becomes someone willing to learn the Kasenon.”

She blushed deeply but was relieved her appearance was approved. At least, it was one thing less for him to find disagreeable.

“Kasethen,” he then exclaimed. “Tea.”

The advisor nodded served tea to the Vasaath and to Juniper.

“ _Shokaan. Parthanan_ ,” said the Vasaath, and Kasethen bowed and left the tent.

She was once again alone with the giant, sitting frightfully close to him, with a smoking cup of foreign tea in front of her.

“Now…” His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “I want to hear more about your faith. I have some understanding of the ground principles, but there is much I do not understand.”

“But I have seen humans in your midst,” said Juniper, confused. “Some of them must be Edredian. I am sure they have great knowledge.”

The Vasaath’s eyes hardened a little. “Most of the _ohkasenon_ turned to us for salvation—they were poor and ill-treated, often uneducated or simply non-believers. Some even pray to different pantheons. They have no obligation to teach me about a faith that never did them any good.” He exhaled deeply and looked down his nose at her. “You, on the other hand, have thrived, haven’t you? You are educated enough to teach me. So teach.”

Juniper shifted in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position before replying. “Well, the faith constitutes of the Vault and the Pillars, the construction of the Builder. The Pillars are the principles the people need to follow, and the Vault is what brings them all together and completes the construction. It symbolises home and family, equality and community.” She bit her lip and dipped her head. “I know it might seem… contradictory to how we live, but that is the foundation of our belief.”

The Vasaath nodded. “And what about Edred? I believe he’s your prophet?”

Juniper had to think for a moment. She had been taught the story of Edred as a child, as all children were taught the story, but she had to think to remember it. “Long ago, before the Void, mortals and immortals lived together in chaos. The immortals ruled as deities, but they were cruel. One of them, whose real name is now long forgotten, recognised the pain the mortals suffered in the hands of the deities and decided to separate them. He built the Netherworld to imprison the cruel deities and the White Void for himself and the benevolent ones, becoming known as the Builder. It is said that many tried to find the Builder again, to follow him as their one true ruler, but mortals could not enter the Void. Hundreds of years of wars followed—without the deities as their common enemy, the mortals turned on each other, realising that power was for those who would take it. The Builder saw the destruction he left behind but could do nothing to interfere. He had built his prison too well. Then, one day, a boy heard his calls, a boy who could see and hear beyond the Void. That was Edred. The Builder made him the first Architect, whose role was to teach the mortals the way of the Builder and bring peace to the world. He was taught the art of divine construction and built the first temple in what is now the Illyrian Empire.”

The Vasaath seemed to ponder this. “And you believe in this story?”

Juniper bit her lip. “I… I don’t know. To every story, there is a grain of truth, I suppose.”

“So, without the principles of your Builder, mortals would fall into chaos once again?”

She suddenly felt as though this might be a trick question. She considered her words carefully before saying, “there are in total six pillars that hold the vault, and those six pillars are called the Structure. They are piety, duty, family… love, compassion and perseverance.” She felt relieved having remembered them in the correct order.

“That was not my question.”

She brought her hands together in her lap. “If the structure crumbles, then so does the vault, leaving us divided. If we are divided, chaos ensues, yes.”

“But you are already divided,” said he. “Such a belief builds on the notion that all mortal beings follow the same principles, which they don’t. That is a fact, an undisputed fact.”

“Well, the Architects argue that we’re all children of the Builder. Some people just don’t know it yet.”

“And what is your argument?” the Vasaath asked.

Juniper looked down on her hands. “I should not dispute the Architects. I’m not that knowledgeable.”

“I do not ask for knowledge,” said the Vasaath seriously. “I ask for your opinion.”

Her father’s voice echoed in mind, telling her that no one wanted to hear her opinions. The mighty Vasaath asked for them, but she felt a harsh pang of disbelief in the pit of her stomach and she finally shook her head, very shyly. “I… have no opinions on the matter, my lord.”

The general furrowed his brows, grunted, and nodded. “Of course you have.”

She looked at him, begged of him not to press any further—if her father found out that she had been telling the Kas what she _really_ thought about the Architects and their interpretation of the Structure, she would be sold like cattle to the highest bidder. But the Vasaath’s gaze was stern and demanding, and finally, she said, “I’ve put my faith in the Architects. They carry the words of Edred and the Builder now.”

His eyes narrowed. “ _Daan_. Lies. Do not lie to me.”

Her cheeks flushed and she swallowed hard. Was it that obvious? She sighed with a shaking breath and said, “do you truly expect me to speak my mind when I am here to teach you about my culture?”

The Vasaath leaned on one elbow and eyed her, much like he had done the day before. “I do not see you as an ambassador of your faith,” said he with a soft rumble, “but as an intelligible woman with a mind of her own. If I want to speak with a devotee, I’d speak with one of your Architects. Yesterday, you spoke much more freely. Now, if I frightened you by my harsh manners yesterday, I beg you to reconsider. You are in no danger from me or anyone else here. As my guest, you’re under my protection.”

She shifted again. “Thank you, my lord, but perhaps there is one thing you should learn about my culture—a woman ought not to speak of things she does not know.”

The Vasaath stared intensely at her, his golden eyes gleaming and glittering. “In my culture,” he then said, “men and women are equal in all matters of the mind. In here, your opinion matters just as much as mine. In that, we are equal.”

There was honesty in his words that she had never heard before. His words were touching and frightening, all at the same time. Never before had she heard that her thoughts mattered, that her voice held weight. She wrung her hands together and said, “I do like the pillars. I think it’s amiable to strive for virtue. I only wish some of the principles were interpreted differently.”

“Differently how?”

“Well, for one, the pillars of family and duty are often interpreted together as one. Do your duty to your family. As a woman, that typically means obeying your husband and birthing him sons. The Architects and the family patriarchs often use that to justify arranged marriages.” She was surprised at herself for speaking so frankly, but the general’s ardent gaze felt genuine and curious. No one had ever listened to her before. “I want to interpret duty as what you owe your peers, and about doing what you ought to, considering your situation. Doing your duty should be doing what you can to make things better, for as many as possible. And family should be interpreted as honouring your mother and father, but also as recognising your role as a part of something bigger. We’re all here together, from all cultures and races, as a family.”

Something changed in the Kas’s eyes. “You speak with great wisdom despite your tender age, _ohkas_. It seems as though you might not find the Kasenon so foreign, after all.”

“Then tell me about your philosophy.”

The Vasaath straightened. “The Kasenon teaches us eight tenets: order, duty, honour, respect, strength, justice, knowledge, and equality. We live each day to stand by our tenets and a true Kas would rather die than abandon the philosophy.”

Juniper tilted her head. “What do the tenets mean? I assume you don’t leave it open for interpretation?”

The Vasaath smiled, only slightly—a sentiment Juniper guess was rarely bestowed upon anyone, least of all an outsider. “Indeed, we don’t,” he then said. “The Kasenon require order through submission, that you live your role and do your duty to the Kas, that you strive for honour in all your endeavours, that you respect yourself as well as others, and that you covet physical and mental strength.” He took a gracious sip of his tea. “Rightness will be rewarded and wrongness will be punished, you shall seek the truth and share that knowledge with the Kas, and shall know that you do not stand above the Kas.”

Juniper thought about his words for a moment. They weren’t that different from the words of the Architects, and yet, they were strange. “What about compassion?” she asked. “What about love and… _family_?”

“The children are raised within the community,” said the Vasaath. “The _Vasmenaan_ is our Great Mother, and the _nemethans_ are our teachers. Once one has reached a ripe age, one is placed within a role. It could be anything from a _kasaath_ , a warrior, to a _maasa_ , a healer. You have already met a _kasethen_ , an advisor.”

She furrowed her brows. “So, Kasethen isn’t his real name?”

“We do not keep names under the Kasenon,” said the Vasaath. “We are what we do.”

Juniper fell into deep wonder. She reached for the cup of tea that had been cooling at the table. It smelled of spices she did not recognise, and as she tasted it, she was surprised to find it smooth as velvet against her tongue. Thinking about the rigorousness of the Kasenon, she gripped the cup with both her hands and stared into the amber liquid.

The Vasaath noticed her silence and asked, “what has led your thoughts astray?”

She shook her head and looked at the general. “It all seems so… cold, and stern.”

“How is it different from your interpretation of your own faith? We recognise that we are all family, and that we are responsible for each other. No, we are not brought up by the women who birth us, but by the women who are born to raise us. No, we are not taught by our fathers, but by men and women who are born to teach. We are given the best chances of becoming great individuals, ones who can seek honour in our lives and strengthen the Kas.”

“But do you ever experience a mother’s love, if you’re brought up in such a… well, institution?”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw ever so slightly. “You are speaking of the feeling of being special, of receiving unconditional affection from one single individual. You do not stand above the Kas. All are equal.”

Her heart tightened. The man before her, so strong and so stern… had he been formed into this statue, this stone, by not received enough love from a mother’s warm embrace? Had he ever felt the soft touch of compassion? Of affection? Was his heart as stony as his expression? Was he even able to feel the warmth of love and affection? The realisation hit with striking force and she breathed, compassionately, “you cannot love…”

His face twisted into a disdainful snarl. “Of course we can. We feel just like any other. We love our _nemethans_ , we love our _Vasmenaan_ , we love our friends. Just because we don’t have what you consider family, doesn’t mean we don’t have love.”

Juniper felt her cheeks redden as she lowered her head. It was foolish of her to suppose such a thing. How little she knew of other cultures, how little she understood of foreign ways. “Forgive me, my lord.”

“Perhaps that is enough for today,” said the general darkly.

Juniper nodded and hurried to her feet. She curtsied deeply, careful not to look him in the eye. “Thank you, my lord, for your valuable lesson.”

“ _Parthanan_. It is done.”

Juniper hurried away. She wondered if there would ever be a day when she didn’t make a fool out of herself in front of the general.

Kasethen waited for her outside the tent and greeted her with a friendly smile. “ _Ohkas-enaan_ ,” he said. “Did you have a nice conversation?”

Juniper smiled nervously. “Yes, indeed.”

“Then we can expect you back tomorrow?”

“If you want me,” said she.

“ _Vahanan_ ,” said Kasethen and bowed. “You are welcome.”

Juniper smiled and curtsied and was then escorted to the entrance where her four guards were waiting. They had been served food, and seemed to have gotten along just fine with the Kas warriors guarding the fort. They greeted their lady with proper salutes and guided her into the carriage. The ride back was silent, solemn, and many thoughts weighed heavy on Juniper’s mind. She still felt ashamed for her ignorant assumptions and wondered if she would ever be able to look the Vasaath in the eye again.

At supper that evening, her father said nothing about Juniper’s task and only grunted when Garret reminded him of it. Her brother spoke about his coming travels, without as much as a thought of the looming threat his sister tried to avert. Her words were shut down by her brother and father’s conversation, and even though Garret—the ever caring Garret—tried to converse with her, their words held no volume in the same room as the Duke’s wine-fuelled bellows.

When she went to bed, her ears rung from her father’s and brother’s drunken laughter and shouts, and she found herself longing for the calm and soothing voice of the Kas general, his intense stare, and his awe-striking stature. She knew she should feel shameful for it, but she did not. In her bedchambers, all by herself, late at night, she felt no shame in longing for him. She was a woman, after all—and although the Vasaath was a terrifying and militaristic warlord, not to mention rather outlandish, he was surprisingly handsome to look at. That realisation made her a bit giddy inside. It could indeed have been the wine, or the terrible sting of loneliness she felt in her own home, but for that evening, she thought that some of the tales she had heard of the Grey Ones might not be so horrible, and she allowed herself to dream, just a little.

The thoughts were nearly gone by morning. All that remained was the shame she felt for presupposing—in front of the Vasaath himself, no less—that the Kas could not love. It clung to her mind like a plague the whole way down to the encampment, but when she again met the general, he seemed unbothered by the conversation they had the day before. He greeted her with his same dark and stern voice, but listened to her with the same keenness and attention as before. They spoke about politics, and despite the fact that Juniper seldom received diplomatic missions, she knew more about the city’s politics than her brother—perhaps not about politics in practice, but certainly about their laws, principles and history. She even earned the general’s respect with her knowledge, something he was generous enough to express.

He told her of the political structure of the Kas, about the three Heads: the Vasaath as the Head of Military, The Vasenon as the Head of Philosophy, and the Vasmenaan as the Head of State. She found it fascinating to listen to, how their society had evolved from a land of savagery into a highly sophisticated society with a strict military rule and a firm belief in equality and solidarity. The Head of State was even a position solely for women—the embodiment of the Great Mother that watched over them all.

But there were things he told her that frightened her; their strict rules meant black and white judgments. The punishments were harsh, but part of Kas politics. The Kas held no prisoners; either the criminals were re-educated, or they were killed. Either their enemies submitted, or they died. Juniper wondered if any of the stories she had heard as a child was true—if the Kas were strict enough to deal such harsh punishments, would they also be savage enough to steal humans from their beds? Were humans kept as slaves? She knew well enough, of course, that they were only tales told by the Architects and the nobles to frighten the mainlanders from converting to the Kasenon. She couldn’t, however, refrain from thinking that there might be some truth to those stories. He did say that the Kas held no prisoners, and slaves were indeed prisoners. But the way he said it made her wonder—how many converts were, in truth, prisoners?

She visited the encampment every day. Each day, she had interesting conversations and discussions with the Vasaath, and sometimes even with Kasethen. She learned about their history, their culture, their food, their poetry, their everyday life, and even about their selective breeding. She told them about her culture, her customs, and her history. She enjoyed their tea, their food and their music. Kasethen even taught her to play a board game that was invented by the Kas.

The Vasaath was indeed a stern man, but at times, he listened with almost a childish keenness. In some ways, it seemed as though he rarely spoke with people the way he spoke with her. He forgot himself at times, but was quick to regain his sternness and poise. If anything, it made Juniper more comfortable, calmer. She enjoyed his company, and she dared to believe that he enjoyed hers.

Her father never asked her about how things were going with their threatening guests. In fact, by each day that passed, he seemed to ignore her just a little bit more. Juniper found herself longing for the soothing words of the Vasaath, more and more for each day that passed, to help her cope with the dreadful words of her father.

One day when she came to the encampment, the Vasaath was not in his tent, where he usually was. No, this day, he was sparring with his warriors in the sun—and what a display of power it was! Juniper had never witnessed anything quite like it. His stature was monumental; his strength, awe-inspiring. The warriors watched and listened with gusto, savouring each word and each movement as if it was a rare treat to see the Vasaath himself instruct. Their respect and trust was nothing a person could doubt—they would follow him to the death without hesitation. Juniper understood why. The Vasaath was a mighty creature, indeed, and even more beautiful without his black armour; his grey skin stretched over his muscled arms and torso, and every movement displayed new statuesque features of the man; the scars on his body proved his experience and prowess; the ink on his skin seemed to awaken with his movements, as if they were magic. While people spoke of powerful leaders, the Vasaath was power itself.

He fought many of his warriors, most without even breaking a sweat. When he declared the sparring over, the warriors all bowed and thanked him for the lesson, and he handed his heavy weapon over to one of his officers. Seeing Juniper, he confidently started towards her—surely, he realised what such a presence would do to a woman? She tried to compose herself, and not seem flustered.

“Lady Juniper,” he said with a slight nod. “I didn’t realise it was noon already. Shall we?” He gestured with his big hand towards the tent, and Juniper nodded and walked beside him.

“It is comforting to see that you care about your soldiers,” said she as they closed in on the tent.

“I do what is required of me as their leader,” said the Vasaath. “But I am sure your generals do the same with your soldiers.”

Juniper smiled faintly. “I would not know.”

“So, tell me,” he said, “what do you know about your generals and your army?”

She looked at him. This, she realised, was a difficult question. She did not know that much—indeed, she wouldn’t be lying if she said she knew close to nothing about the matter—but if he required her to tell him everything that she knew, would that compromise them? Another thing she had learnt from years of listening to her father and brother was that the best way to beat an enemy was to know his weaknesses. Now, there were certainly weaknesses in her culture and political drabble, but they did not seem as threatening as weaknesses in their army. At least not in their current state of affairs. She wrapped her arms around herself and said, “I would rather not answer that, my lord.”

The Vasaath chuckled as he withdrew the crimson canvas for her. “I would think not.”

She halted to look at him. “Then why did you ask?”

“I would not want to make assumptions.” His gaze told her a great more than his expression, and she knew, right there, right then, than he had not forgotten her ignorance.

She knew her face was brilliant red as she entered the tent, and as the Vasaath let the canvas fall, the sounds from the outside world disappeared. Juniper sat down by the table while the Vasaath strode up to tea table. He didn’t ask if she wanted any, but poured her a cup anyway. She knew she didn’t have to drink it, but she did. If anything, it was to have an excuse not to speak.

The Vasaath lowered himself down by the table, his chest still bare and his muscles still engorged from the physical activities. His golden eyes were set on her, she could feel it, but he said nothing. They enjoyed their tea in complete silence, and she had to admit that it wasn’t uncomfortable. At times, it was even relaxing. Indeed, she knew she had to maintain her bearings in front of the warlord—especially since he had a very peculiar effect on her—but she felt as though there were no demands as to her femininity and her status. She was perfectly at ease drinking tea with the Vasaath, slouched if she wished, even though his gaze made her wary from time to time.

They only kept a very casual conversation that day, about tea and food and songs, and when their conversation came to a close, Juniper thanked him for his time, curtsied and left the encampment. This was a daily routine she did not mind having.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Daan** – _lies  
_ **Kasaath** – _warrior;_ “strength of the people”  
 **Maasa** – _healer  
_ **Nemethan** _–_ _teacher_ ; wise woman  
 **Vasmenaan** – _queen;_ nation leader; “Leader of Our Deepest Care”  
 **Venaas** – _friend_  
 **Saathenaan** – elite warriors; “deepest strength”  
 **Shokaan** – thank you; many thanks; “expression of gratitude”  
 **Shokaan, kasethen venaas** – “thank you, wise friend”


	6. The Visitors: V

**V**

  
He carefully placed his leather armour across the table and grabbed himself the vessel of leather treatment. Tending to his neatly crafted things was soothing, and it cleared his mind. Clearing of mind was exactly what he needed. He had spent nearly the entire summer, about sixty days, speaking with the Duke’s daughter, trying to figure out whether or not the people of this wretched city were ready to receive the Kasenon. But it was an infuriating task, and he had felt a rising frustration for weeks. He hadn’t heard a single thing of use, and on top of it all, that girl’s silver eyes haunted both his dreams and his every waking hour. Her voice echoed in his ears like a distant whisper, and he cursed himself for wishing her to stay just a little longer each day. He hadn’t felt it at first, the wanting. He had certainly felt an allure the first time he had laid his eyes on her—her delicate beauty had not been lost on him—but he had felt no stir of emotions, no creeping shivers along his body when meeting her silver eyes or hearing her soft voice. The interest had awoken slowly. Her voice had invaded his mind, word by word; the flicker of candlelight in her brilliant eyes had seared into his memory, nightfall by nightfall. The sweet smell of her had lingered more and more in his tent. For two moons, he had been able to bear it, to repress it, but his patience was wearing thin.

It was unworthy of him to feel the way he did, to covet an _ohkas_ , and it threw him off balance. It made him foolish and reckless, and it made him act like a simple _kasaath_ again. It was these awful, unsophisticated lands that made him turn savage.

His work was meticulous as he spread the oil over his leather armour inch by inch. He heard Kasethen enter the tent.

“I see you’ve chosen the thick ointment,” said Kasethen. “It’s going to take you some time to cover your entire armour.”

The Vasaath took a deep breath. “There’s no need to tread carefully, Kasethen,” said he. “Ask me, if you must. I have yet to decide whether or not to answer.”

Kasethen moved carefully towards the table. He watched the general work for a few moments before he asked, “what is weighing you, my lord?”

The Vasaath had reached a particularly intricate part and carefully wedged the oil into every crevasse of the leather. He let his mind clear for another moment before he said, “the girl, Kasethen. The girl is bothering me.”

“Oh?” There was some surprise in his voice. “I was under the impression that you rather enjoyed Lady Juniper’s company?”

“She is pleasant enough to converse with,” said the Vasaath. “Easy on the eyes… but she says nothing of consequence. It’s a waste of my time.”

The Kasethen pondered for a moment before saying, “but she is teaching you a great many things about the mainland culture, my lord. That must be of value, no?”

“Yes, she tells me of their idiotic politics, their ridiculous faith, and their tenuous arguments for societal rules,” snarled the Vasaath. “She knows nothing of their military strategy or their inter-political relationships—she is of no value to me.”

“But, my lord,” Kasethen said, “she might be withholding certain information, knowing it’s sensitive. Furthermore, she seems very recipient to the Kasenon, and need I remind you of her ability to inspire the people? You should continue your endeavour of making her convert.”

The Vasaath kept his gaze steady. He decidedly forced away the thought of the girl submitting to him, and focused on his leather.

Kasethen sighed. “We could ask for another ambassador, of course, one that would—”

“No.” His answer was darker than he had anticipated—he never meant for it to be so resolute. He then said, “I would not wish to waste my time with another. It is a test of my patience, indeed, but I suppose it is good we have the Duke’s daughter in our hands. If it comes to it, we have leverage.”

Kasethen, with his soft heart, sighed. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

The Vasaath sighed in frustration and turned to his friend. “Tell me, Kasethen, how do you see this evolve, then? I’m sure Lady Juniper might be able to sway some of her faithful subjects, but there will still be forceful conversion. There will be many who deny us, and there will be blood. That is what you wish to avoid, is it not?”

Kasethen blinked. “Isn’t that what you wish to avoid, too, my lord?”

The Vasaath snorted. “I couldn’t care less about these spiteful people. One way or another, they will learn that order will only come through submission. They will submit, or they will die.”

Kasethen said nothing, but the Vasaath could sense his disapproval nonetheless. He knew Kasethen stood against violent conquering, and the general knew why, of course. Forceful conversion raised the risks of complaints and riots, something the Kas could do well without. A person forced into their philosophy would not understand it, would not revere it. It was not to be wished for. Indeed, a peaceful and natural conversion was the best option, but that took time—and the Vasaath knew not how much longer he could stand speaking with the Duke’s daughter knowing she was beyond his reach.

The general sighed. “We will give them a bit more time, Kasethen. How much, I cannot tell, but when the time comes, I will attack.”

Kasethen nodded. “Very well.”

The two stood in silence for another moment before one of the officers entered the tent. “Vasaath,” said the warrior and bowed, “we have more of them at our gate.”

The Vasaath and Kasethen exchanged looks before the general said, “let them in. Kasethen will greet them.”

The advisor bowed and followed the _kasaath_ out of the tent. The Vasaath returned to his armour. The new _ohkasenon_ would be greeted and fed properly before he would meet with them anyway, giving him plenty of time to clear his mind.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Kasaath** – _warrior;_ “strength of the people”  
**Ohkas** – _stranger_ ; “not of Kas”; “not of the people”  
**Ohkasenon** – foreign follower of the Kasenon; “follower of the faith of the people but not of the people”


	7. The Visitors: VI

** VI **

  
Supper was dull, as usual. Juniper ignored her father’s and brother’s mindless chatter and kept the memory of the powerful and beautiful display of the Vasaath fresh in her mind. Sometimes, she let her eyes remain shut for a few moments longer, just so she could imagine herself sitting by the Vasaath’s table, relaxing in her own existence, but her vision was always interrupted by her father’s sputtering laughter and shouts. Then, to her great surprise, her father addressed her.

“Oh, and Juniper,” he said, “the Duke of Westbridge is to join us the day after tomorrow. He is bringing his son and I expect you to take good care of him.”

She looked up, unable to fully comprehend what had just been said. “What do you mean?”

Her father raised his brows and leaned onto his elbow. “Well, I want you, dear daughter, to _entertain_ the Duke’s son.” Sebastian snickered, but her father continued. “If things go as planned, you will soon be his wife anyway.”

At once, her heart sank. “You,” she started, her voice weak. “You can’t decide that!”

“Of course I can,” said the Duke. “I’m the Duke, and your father. If anyone is to decide, it’s me.”

She felt the cries rise in her throat. “So you would send me to be a… a _harlot_?”

Her father let out a scornful laugh. “Don’t pretend like you haven’t been warming the sheets of that _demon_ down by the docks for the past two months. Why not put your talents to use and actually _accomplish_ something?”

Juniper felt hot rage sear through her, as well as stinging shame and humiliation. She glared at her brother, who only kept his gaze steadily at the table, and then she turned her eyes back to her father. She wanted to scream at him, and a thousand words came to mind, but she said nothing. She could not. Instead, she left the table and ran to her room. She was too angry to cry, and yet tears streamed down her face and neck and she could do nothing to stop them. She paced her room, feeling how her anger and disappointment raged through her.

Suddenly, a gentle knock fell upon her chamber door. She knew it well, and it made her roll her eyes. “Leave me alone, Garret!”

“ _My lady_ ,” said the advisor through the door. “ _You must excuse your father. You know he speaks rudely when he is under the influence._ ”

She walked closer to the door. “Is it true?” she asked. “Am I to be sold to Westbridge?”

Garret sighed deeply behind the door. “ _It is talk of an alliance, yes, but nothing is yet decided. The Duke of Westbridge is coming here to negotiate. You are right in being upset, my lady, but if it comes to it, you are expected to do your duty._ ”

She curled her hands into fists. Her duty? Yes, she had always known it would come to this, but she was surprised and shocked nonetheless. She bit her lip and then replied, “but if I am to be given to the next Duke of Westbridge, you cannot assume that my soon-to-be fiancé would find it appropriate that I spend my days with the Kas general.” She took a deep breath and continued, “and don’t you think the Kas would be rather upset if the one they have spent so many hours speaking to about their philosophy suddenly became unavailable? Do you truly believe they would be patient enough to teach someone else?”

Garret sighed again. “ _Let me speak to your father, but please, meet the Duke’s son the day after tomorrow._ ”

“Fine,” Juniper said. “But I will make no promises.”

“ _Fair enough. Good night, my lady._ ”

She listened to his fading footsteps before sinking to the floor by the door. Her heart pained, her chest tightened. She had never been to Westbridge, but she had heard that it was more or less a mud hole with nothing else to show for but the enormous drawbridge that led people over the Dawning River. That, and their famous Illyrian army. If Noxborough was the gateway to the Winter Sea, Westbridge was the gateway to Illyria. But Juniper cared not for drawbridges or Illyria. She did not want to be married off to some pompous lord who thought he owned the world, but it _was_ her duty. She had known it since she was a child; she would be married off to a lord just like her mother was married off to her father. She was to leave her home to fall in line somewhere else while her brother was to become the next Duke of Noxborough.

That night, she was riddled with terrible thoughts, tossing and turning without getting much tranquillity. When dawn approached, she had barely slept at all. She spent her morning trying to figure out a way to dispel the Duke’s son, so that he would not wish to marry her at all. If she was lucky, she didn’t have to do anything—perhaps the Duke’s son would find her so repellent that he wouldn’t want anything to do with her. Her body ached from her lack of sleep, and worry tore through her like a disease. Knowing that it might happen someday in the future was one thing, but knowing that it was imminent was something else. In her mind, she was already trapped.

At noon, she visited the Kas encampment, as usual, despite the harsh and unforgiving rain that had started to pour. The warriors were so used to her presence by then, they barely noticed her arrival at all. Some were keener on greeting her than others, and she thought that they perhaps had a small infatuation with her—at least, that was what she wanted to think of the smiles and the painfully ungraceful displays of power they presented whenever she walked past them. Men were men, she thought, no matter what race. She didn’t mind, however, and found it rather charming.

The Vasaath was in his tent. A fire was burning lively right beside the table, and the warmth was a welcomed change from the cold outside. She found the Vasaath’s large frame leaned against a whole set of pillows and cushions on the floor, brooding over a book. He seemed very comfortable, had it not been for the deep line that had formed between his dark eyebrows.

He looked up, and his face softened once he noticed her. “ _Vahanan, okhas_.”

Juniper curtsied. “My lord.”

He then returned to his book, and the line reappeared. “I am reading this fascinating book about your political history,” said he. “So many city coups, so much treachery… it seems as though you Free Cities have a history of playing games—and cheating.”

Juniper smiled and walked closer. “Yes, it’s… quite remarkable, I agree.”

He looked at her again. His golden eyes were inquisitive, and then they narrowed. “You look tired.”

“Yes, well… I didn’t sleep very well last night, I’m afraid.”

He hummed, returned to his book, and said, “then why don’t you lie down for a while?”

She raised her brows. “I’m sorry?”

Without taking his eyes from the book, he gestured towards the space next to him. “Then lie down for a while. Sleep.”

She knew not what to answer. Shifting awkwardly from one foot to another, she said, “I don’t think that’s appropriate, my lord. What about our conversations?”

He looked up, his gaze hard and unamused. “How good a conversationalist are you when you look as though you could fall asleep standing up?” Then he sighed and returned to his book. “Do what you wish, but I am not finished reading yet, so whatever you do, conversation has to wait.”

She stood there for a moment, considering her options. She could sit down by the table and wait, but for how long? It could be hours for all she knew. The cushions he leaned against, elegantly propped up on a heavy rug, looked very comfortable, indeed, and she was very tired. But there was little space left for her, and she would have to be quite close to the general. Heat in her stomach flared by the mere thought of being so vulnerable, so close to him, and perhaps it was that dangerous allure that made her carefully move towards him. She sat down as gracefully as she could, and even though she had done her best not to sit down all too close to him, her shoulder still touched his muscled arm. She flushed violently and pulled her knees to her chin. The Vasaath said nothing and continued reading his book. Juniper looked at him, but when she realised that the book had all his attention, she took a deep breath and leaned back against the pillows. They were soft, like clouds, and smelled of rich spices. She let them encase her, and as she closed her eyes, she felt perfectly safe. She could hear the general’s steady breaths next to her, and his gentle turning of pages in a slow rhythm. The air was warm and comforting; the embrace was soft and forgiving. The smell of the burning fire and foreign spices dulled her senses, and the sound of the rain hitting the canvas lulled her. Before she knew it, her mind wandered off and she drifted far, far away.

* * *


	8. The Visitors: VII

** VII **

  
He wondered why he tortured himself so. The moment he’d heard the girl’s heavy breaths, he had let his gaze wander over the small frame that lay beside him, so serene, so blissful in her sleep. Her eyes moved rapidly under her pale eyelids, and he wondered what she was dreaming of. Her dark hair lay in an elegant braid over her shoulder and he resisted the urge to gently touch it. To touch _her_.

Why did he tell her to lie down next to him? Why did he put himself through such agony? His gaze swept over her body, landing on small details on her apparel, such as the intricate gold embroidery on her cuffs, or the simple but elegant pendant that rested just between her collarbones. His eyes followed the shape of her, registered every curve and every crevasse; how her jaw gracefully joined her earlobe and hairline, how her delicate hands had fine, healthy nails on them, and how the curve of her hip slightly protruded from her in the position she was in; how her full lips were slightly parted, how a strand of dark hair moved with every exhale, and how her chest rose and fell with every breath. He let his eyes linger on the soft, round shape of her breasts, just for a moment, before he furrowed his brows and returned to his book. _Torture_.

But how could he continue to read now? Carefully, he rose from his seat. He poured himself a glass of wine and enjoyed the view of her from afar. As a _kasaath_ , he would not hesitate to imagine himself with the girl in all sorts of ways, but he was Vasaath now, and such inappropriate thoughts would simply not do. He had no business coveting an _ohkas_. Such urges were beneath him.

The torture lasted for about an hour. The girl stirred with the tiniest of yelps and sat up with hazy eyes. The Vasaath watched her from his desk where he had tried to write a letter for the past hour. “I trust you slept well,” he said, and the girl nodded.

“Indeed,” she sang, and he had to clench his jaw tightly—her slumberous voice was sensual and sweet. “I haven’t slept that well in months.”

He nodded and returned to his letter. “I’m glad to hear it.” From the corner of his eye, he saw her yawn and stretch her arms out, and then lean back against the cushions. Her gaze was on him, he could tell. “Would you like some tea?” he asked.

She hummed melodiously, her body perfectly at ease down on the rug.

He grunted and rose from his desk. Warm tea would surely fit such dreadful weather. He served her a cup, and she accepted with singing gratitude. The Vasaath returned to his desk, and his letter.

“Please, do forgive me if I forced you away!” the girl suddenly burst out. “I must have taken up quite a lot of space…”

“No,” he muttered. “I was done reading.”

“Oh.” She sounded surprised—perhaps a bit disappointed—but then said, “you know, I truly enjoy this tea. It’s so… rich!”

“It is sufficient,” said he, and took a sip. It was more than sufficient, of course. It was his favourite tea. Why he didn’t admit to that, was beyond him.

“Have you ever tasted Illyrian wine?” she asked after a good few minutes of silence. “It’s supposed to be the best wine in the world.”

The Vasaath snorted. “The Illyrian’s can’t make wine.”

“Well, I think it’s rather good.”

He looked at her. She sipped her tea while still leaned against the pillows. For a fleeting moment, he had the feeling she belonged there, comfortably surrounded by their crimson colours and their quality produce. He allowed himself to think about it, about who she could be under the Kasenon—a _maasa_ , no doubt. His _maasa_.

He quickly discarded the thought and returned to his letter. He had barely been able to write anything at all that day. “If you want to taste real wine,” he said, “you should taste wine from the vineyards of Kasarath.” He rose again and poured her a glass. The deep scarlet liquid glittered in the light of the fire, and he offered it to her. She exchanged her teacup for the glass and gave it a careful taste. She choked, coughed. Clearly, she wasn’t used to such strong liquor. A corner of the general’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid it’s only room temperature,” said he. “It’s best enjoyed when it’s warm.”

“It’s very spicy,” she croaked after she had recovered and dared herself another sip.

“Yes,” he drawled and poured himself a glass. “I suppose it’s an… acquired taste.”

“I like it,” she smiled. “I’m just not used to drinking something this strong.”

“You humans have such low tolerance for alcohol,” he sneered. “Yet you all wish to brag about your high threshold for your watery substances.”

“Are you telling me that you could drink any human under the table?” she challenged—just a few sips, and she was already losing her senses.

The Vasaath raised a brow. “You certainly don’t defend your kind, with your tiny frame.”

“No,” she said matter-of-factly, “but I have seen brutes win battles after drinking their own weight in wine.”

He narrowed his eyes, amused by this. “Is that so?”

“Well, perhaps not their _entire_ weight,” she admitted. “But still, the gentlemen I’ve seen had been drinking a considerable amount.”

“And who were they fighting?” the Vasaath asked. “Children?”

She snickered. “No. But perhaps their adversaries were just as drunk as they were.”

He resisted the urge to smile—such sentiment was reserved for close friends and kin only. The _kasaath_ could smile all they wanted, but he had to refrain from such frivolous behaviour.

They kept a very casual conversation that afternoon. The girl seemed to ease up more and more with each sip of her wine. Her cheeks had taken a healthy pink glow, and her eyes were clouded. She giggled and chuckled, and said things she would most certainly not dare say otherwise—for one, she complimented him on his excellent form yesterday, even though she clearly knew nothing of combat and fighting. He wasn’t stupid, and he knew very well that she would be there in time to watch him, and he knew she would be affected. He often had that effect on women. If anything, it kept him amused. It was very calculated, indeed, and even though he knew that any physical contact with the Duke’s daughter was unthinkable, he could still stir her interest.

Then, of course, the amusement would only work if he wasn’t, in return, interested in the woman. Now, her reddening cheeks and sparkling eyes were torturous. He knew he shouldn’t aspire for spending so much time with her, and yet, he couldn’t help himself but to try to make her stay just a little longer. When she finally stood, on round feet, and declared that it was rather late, the Vasaath said, “for tomorrow, I’d like you to show me the poorer districts of the city. I’d like to see how you treat your outsiders and degenerates.”

“Oh,” she said and brought her hands together. “I’m afraid I won’t be joining you tomorrow.”

He narrowed his eyes, feeling a slight annoyance rise within his chest. “No?” He didn’t care that it sounded more like a guttural growl than a word.

The girl, however, took a sharp breath and hastily gazed away. “I—I am engaged elsewhere for tomorrow, my lord.”

“And what is it that you will be doing?” He did not mean to sound so spiteful, but he didn’t like the sound of this. She had kept him company every day for two months, and tomorrow, she had more _important_ things to do?

“I am to entertain a nobleman,” said she, her voice suddenly small. “Forgive me, my lord, but I didn’t know until yesterday evening.”

He observed her for a moment, wondering whether to see it as an act of defiance or as an insult. The girl wrung her hands together while swaying slightly as she stood, waiting for his judgment. It satisfied him, to see her handing the power over to him so easily. He could tell her no, that he would not tolerate being set aside by some mere nobleman, that she would come to him at noon as always. He could tell her—no, order her—that he wanted her to stay the night. But he just said, “very well. I suppose our plans can wait another day. _Parthanan, ohkas_.”

She curtsied—slowly, as if not to fall in the process—before leaving the tent. Shortly after, the Vasaath barked for one of his guards. The warrior entered the tent, keen on following orders. The Vasaath leaned back in his chair. “Have her followed. I want to know who she’s meeting tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” said the _kasaath_. “I’ll inform the _kaseraad_ immediately.”

“Fetch me Kasethen.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Vasaath grunted and waved his had dismissingly, and the warrior bowed and left the tent. Before long, Kasethen entered with a deep bow. The Vasaath sighed and rose. “Tell me, my friend, why would a Duke’s daughter, with an important diplomatic mission, set that mission aside to entertain a nobleman?”

Kasethen seemed unsure as to what to say.

“I’ll tell you why,” the Vasaath continued as he slowly started to pace the tent. “The nobleman is very important. One might say, that he is as important as me. The only conclusion I can draw from that, in times like these, is that the Duke is trying to build alliances.” He looked at his advisor. “The Duke of Noxborough isn’t drawing up a peace treaty, he’s preparing for a fight.”

“But, my lord,” said Kasethen, “you never intended to accept a peace treaty, anyway. Why should we assume that Duke Arlington trusts us?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” said the Vasaath.

“If he manages to rally the Free Cities, we will be outrageously outnumbered,” said Kasethen.

The Vasaath looked at him and sneered. “Do you think a vain man like Duke Arlington has the charisma to bring together six widely different and equally conceited cities to fight a threat like us?”

Kasethen furrowed his brows. “But why are we holding back, then? Why are we giving them time?”

“We aren’t giving them time,” said the Vasaath. “We’re giving _us_ time. We need the _Saath_ before we can strike safely.”

“My lord? The… the entire army?”

“Yes. I’ve sent for them. We will launch a full invasion.” He straightened. “Kasethen, the Free Cities are divided. They consider themselves better than each other, and always have. Once they’ve seen the unity and might of our _Saath_ , they will succumb. Peacefully, as you wish. Within a year, every one of the Free Cities will be under our command, and we can secure the future of our people.”

Kasethen shook his head. “But my lord, that will anger the Illyrian Empire!”

The Vasaath sighed deeply. “Sit down, Kasethen.” His advisor looked uncertain, but did as told and placed himself by the table. The Vasaath poured them each a glass of wine and joined his advisor. With a rich gulp of the tasty liquid, he sighed again. “Yes, that would indeed anger the Golden Emperor, and that’s why we won’t stop until this whole continent is ours.”

Kasethen widened his eyes. “Illyria too?”

The Vasaath let the corners of his lips curl into a smile. Yes, Illyria indeed. The invasion had been planned for years, ever since the rivers in the Faith had frozen and ever since the Wise Ones had fled the Mother’s Shadow. “We’re supposed to secure the northern coastline. Noxborough is the key to the Winter Sea. It’ll be an important strategic stronghold.”

“My lord,” Kasethen gurgled, horrified, “a full invasion of the Illyrian Empire is far beyond what we have the resources for.”

“We have the manpower, and summer is quickly fading. Before we know it, winter will be upon us.” He reached out his hand and gestured the space around him. “Humans fear the cold. They aren’t built for it. Their ships can’t sail the frozen seas. If we take the city before winter comes, we can take advantage of the cold months and have our people at full strength again before spring. We will fill the granaries and larders again on Kasarath and keep our people from starving. The sun cravers in the south won’t march this far north before summer.”

Kasethen seemed speechless—for a _saath-kasethen_ , he was rather naive. How could he have believed that the Vasaath would travel to a wretched place like Noxborough to try to convert and not conquer? How could he think that he would put a stupid crusade ahead of securing the future of his people? “My lord,” he then said, “this all relies on the presumption that the Free Cities will not aid each other. Yet, if it is as you have predicted, that the nobleman Lady Juniper is to entertain tomorrow is indeed a nobleman from another city and that the Duke is trying to form an alliance, we are already at the point where his ability to gather his people is being put to the test. What if he succeeds? Then, we won’t be able to secure the coastline, and Kasarath might lose a great mass of its best warriors.”

“Nornest was once a great a powerful kingdom,” said the Vasaath. “Its people became its downfall. They didn’t want to work together to appoint a new King, and instead, they tore the land apart. You think they are any better now?”

“That was a long time ago,” Kasethen muttered. “Many generations have passed since then.”

The Vasaath huffed and nodded. “You told me once, when I was still _kasaath_ , that mainland alliances are brittle.”

“Well,” said Kasethen, “that depends on the alliance. Sovereigns, resources, land, and titles are often used as currency in alliances, and they are all as wavering as the mainlanders’ loyalty, but…” His brows furrowed even tighter and he folded his hands on the table. “My lord, one common way of building lasting alliances is through blood. Through marriage.”

The Vasaath raised a brow. He knew about marriages—such an absurd concept. “So the Duke will marry?”

“Or,” said Kasethen and sighed, “his daughter will be married, and bear children to the Duke of another city.”

A sudden sting of regret hit the general’s chest as he realised that his advisor was most certainly right. Indeed, the girl was a formidable tool in building this obscene blood lineage that could join Noxborough to another city and create an alliance built on family and duty, the very building blocks of their absurd faith.

Kasethen cleared his throat. “Of course, that would be an impediment to our endeavours of making her our cardinal spokesperson of the Kasenon.”

“Yes,” said the Vasaath. “We cannot let that happen.”

“Indeed.”

“I’ve sent spies to follow her. Tomorrow, we shall see which city the Duke has turned to.”

Kasethen nodded, but he still seemed deep in thought.

“Share your troubles, _venaas_ ,” said the Vasaath.

Kasethen shook his head. “I only wished you would have told me before we left Kasarath.”

“Only to have you advise against it?” the Vasaath huffed.

Kasethen glared at his leader. “My lord, my word has no weight against yourself, the Vasenon, and the Vasmenaan.”

“Of course it has.” The Vasaath poured himself another glass of wine. “Had you told me you didn’t think this was a wise plan, I might not have voted in its favour at the Triumvirate.”

“And what would the Vasmenaan have said?”

The Vasaath shrugged. “Whatever she’d like. She has to respect my vote as much as her own. We would never launch such a large invasion without a unanimous concurrence.”

Kasethen sighed. “You would never vote against it, even if that would have been my advice.”

“Would it have been your advice?” The Vasaath leaned over the table and furrowed his brows. “Would you have advised me against this? Do you think it’s a foolish plan?”

Kasethen seemed to choose his words wisely before saying, “I believe in your judgment, my lord. I believe in the Vasenon’s judgment, and I believe in the Vasmenaan’s judgment. As you say, if we are patient, we will have the manpower and the elements will be in our favour. Besides, I doubt we would make it for many more years if the lands keep on freezing.”

“However?”

“ _However_ ,” Kasethen sighed, “forceful conversions never end well. We rip these people apart, we rip their traditions apart! We take from them their families, their dreams, their identities… what we are left with are broken people, forced by fear to succumb to us. There will be uprisings, raids, unrest…”

“But the Kasenon will heal them.” The Vasaath straightened. “They will see reason, eventually.”

“My lord,” said Kasethen, his voice now flaring with annoyance, “I believe in the philosophy, just as strongly as you do, but these people don’t. The rich and the powerful will never give up their riches or their power for the thought of equality and solidarity.” The advisor tightened his jaw. “Especially not when we come here for their hard-earned food and crops…” He sighed. “Besides, it all boils down to whether or not the Duke manages to rally the other cities. You shouldn’t underestimate the humans’ will to survive.”

The Vasaath listened whole-heartedly to his advisor, but there were things his dear friend just would not understand. Kasethen was wise, indeed, but his heart was filled with fear. The Vasaath said, “he won’t succeed. He is a vain man, with vain visions. The rich and the powerful are not the people. They are the oppressors of the people, and the people will see us as their liberators. We are feeding _them_ just as much as we are feeding ourselves. They will not be forced to abandon their faith, only to put the Kasenon first. They will not be forced to leave their families, only to do their duties to the Kas. They will not be forced to abandon their traditions, or their dreams… we can’t take that away from them. Let’s give them a sense of belonging, one they’ve never had before. Let these people become part of the People, and let them live in the same riches and abundance as we do. Well, as we will, once the Heartlands heal and the rivers melt. All we will ask in return is for them to fall in line.”

“I hope,” said Kasethen, though his doubt was still quite unmistakable, “that it will be that easy.”

“It will, my friend. It will.”

* * *

**Translation:**

**Maasa** – _healer  
_ **Kaseraad** – _spies_ ; “the shadow of the people”  
 **Saath** – _military; army; strength; protection  
_ **Venaas** – _friend_


	9. The Visitors: VIII

** VIII **

  
There were numerous reasons for Juniper to despise noblemen. For one, they were rarely very _noble_. Lord Cornwall, Duke of Westbridge, was a pitiful man. He was short, bald, and very ill-proportionate. He claimed to be a very pious man, but wore lavish clothes with silk and intricate embroidery—he even boasted about how he had bought it from a slaver in Illyria. Yes, he was very pitiful, indeed. His entourage, even more so. After being spoiled by large, muscular Kas for two entire months, Juniper felt no awe in seeing the otherwise famous soldiers of Westbridge with their Drawbridge banner. They lacked the elegance and the stature of the Grey Ones, and instead, they sported self-assured smiles and turned up noses—just like Lord Cornwall himself, and his son. Lord Christopher was handsome enough, with long, golden hair and elegant blue eyes, but his otherwise agreeable face was turned into a much disagreeable scowl that didn’t seem to change. Perhaps, Juniper thought, it was simply his appearance.

The guests arrived shortly after noon. They enjoyed luncheon, after which the two Dukes retreated to Juniper’s father’s study to discuss the alliance, and Juniper was left with Lord Christopher and his guards.

She tried to be as agreeable as she possibly could, but she could not deny her strong wishes to rather be with the Vasaath, leaned against his cushions, and listening to his soothing voice.

“The smell is revolting,” said Lord Christopher suddenly.

Juniper smiled. “I assure you, one gets used to it. It’s the smell of the sea.” It must smell worse in Westbridge, she thought bitterly, being so close to the marshes.

The Lord wrinkled his nose. “Smells like somebody ate a dead rat, took a shit, ate the shit, and then shat it back out again.”

Juniper was appalled by what he had just said—such foul language! In an attempt to take his mind off the smell of the sea, she said, “my lord, would you like to tour Fairgarden with me?”

But the Lord just laughed. “ _Fairgarden_? There’s nothing fair about this place! I suppose your face is fair enough, but I’ll have to wait until I see your tits and cunt before I make up my mind on that subject.” He snickered cruelly, together with his guards, and they all threw dirty glares down their noses at her. “I suppose I’ll have plenty of time to find out once we’re wed.”

She felt her cheeks redden violently from the obscene comment. She wanted to yell at them, to scold them until they cried like little children, but she said nothing.

“No,” said Lord Christopher and sighed, “forget this blasted place. I want to see the beast-men. They’re here, aren’t they? By the docks?”

Child-like excitement shone in the lord’s eyes, and Juniper was tempted to oblige the young man and lead him down to the fort. Perhaps she could present him to the Vasaath himself and let the general bestow some of his harsh lessons upon the young lord? But she refrained and said, “I am terribly sorry, my lord, but you should probably not visit the docks if you want to return to Westbridge alive.”

Lord Christopher’s blue eyes suddenly hardened. “Is that a threat upon your lips?”

Juniper took a step back. “No, indeed not! It was nothing but a well-intended warning!”

“I don’t care about your warnings, wench!” he spat. “I wish to speak with the demons myself. If we are to fight these creatures, we ought to know who we are truly fighting. Now, take me down to the docks, or I’ll have you flogged for disobedience!”

Juniper took a deep, exhausted breath, and said, “very well. If you wish it, my lord.” She curtsied, more out of spite than respect, and asked a servant to call for a carriage. She knew her father would be furious at her, and if anything happened to Lord Christopher while down by the harbour, the alliance would most certainly be destroyed before it had even been formed.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived. The large warriors guiding the entrance of the fort nodded respectfully when Juniper exited the carriage, but their golden eyes were wary when her company followed.

“We wish to speak with your Vasaath,” she said and smiled. “If he is not occupied elsewhere, of course.”

One of the warriors looked at her and then at the young lord and his guards, and then back at her. “We will allow _you_ inside, my lady, but the other _ohkas_ must stay behind.”

“I wish to speak to your leader!” Lord Christopher strode up to the much taller warrior with a nonchalant air. “Tell him, that I am the son of Lord Cornwall, Duke of Westbridge, and that I have come to meet with the infamous leader of the Grey Ones.”

The warrior only glared at him before looking back at Juniper. “We will allow only you inside, my lady.” He glared back at the young lord before lowering his voice. “Are you in distress, my lady?”

She smiled, and her heart fluttered—these stoic people did care, after all. “No, indeed not. You need not worry, but I appreciate the senti—”

“This is outrageous!” Lord Christopher exclaimed and laughed. “Are you frightened, perhaps? Is that why you won’t let me meet your leader? Perhaps he is a very small man? Minuscule, even? Perhaps you’re afraid I’ll squash him under my dirty boot?”

The warrior tensed, and from his gut came a low and rumbling growl and he said something in his own tongue. Juniper saw the warrior grip his spear so tightly, his knuckles whitened, but just as he might have been preparing to attack, the gates opened, and Kasethen arrived. Juniper exhaled in relief.

“ _Vahanan, okhas-enaan_ ,” he said and bowed to Juniper. “I see that you bring company.”

Juniper sighed and nodded. “Yes, Kasethen. This is Lord Christopher Cornwall, son of the Duke of Westbridge. He wishes to speak with the Vasaath.”

“Well then,” said Kasethen and turned to Lord Christopher. “My lord, the Vasaath will receive you.” Kasethen bowed, and it seemed to please the young lord as he strode past the still tense warrior and into the fort, his two guards close behind him.

Juniper followed together with Kasethen. Lowly, she said, “please, do forgive me for this rudeness. I tried to stop him from coming here.”

But Kasethen only smiled and said, “you have no fault in this, _okhas-enaan_. The Vasaath heard him shouting outside the gates, and he was intrigued.”

Juniper did not like the sound of that, at all, but said nothing more. They were led by two other warriors past the tent and up towards the battlement looking out over the harbour. There, with his face towards the sea, stood the Vasaath. His was fully clad in his black leather armour, and despite having seen him the day before, Juniper was taken aback by his magnificence. Indeed, he was quite breathtaking.

“Grey One!” Lord Christopher bellowed, but he was immediately silenced by one of the warriors who harshly replied, “honour the Vasaath or die!”

The general turned slowly. His face was calm but difficult to read. He eyed the small party and placed his hands behind his back. He nodded towards Juniper and said, his voice stained with strange intimacy, “Lady Juniper.”

She curtsied deeply and respectfully and replied his addresses with, “Vasaath.”

He then turned his golden eyes to the young lord, and with slight amusement, he said, “and to whom do I owe this pleasure?”

Lord Christopher’s confidence seemed to waver—surely he had never expected to meet such an impressive and formidable man such as the Vasaath. “I am Lord Christopher Cornwall, son of the Duke of Westbridge.”

A light seemed to flicker in the giant’s eyes. “Westbridge? Well, I welcome you. What brings you here?”

“I only wished to see what simple invaders look like,” the lord sneered. “And now that I have…” He chuckled scornfully. “I’m not worried at all.”

Juniper felt her pulse rise. This was worse than she could ever have imagined.

The Vasaath reached out his hands in an inclusive gesture. “This does not impress you?”

Lord Christopher scoffed. “You have but what? A hundred soldiers? We have over five thousand of the best Illyrian soldiers sovereigns can buy.”

Juniper gasped and quickly turned to the blonde boy. “My lord, I think it’s best if we refrain from—”

“You keep your mouth shut, _wench_ , or I’ll slap you!” Lord Christopher growled while raising his hand, and it caused Juniper to shrink and take a step back.

Before anyone had time to understand what was happening, a large, heavy hand wuthered through the air and hit the young lord’s face with crushing impact. The youngling twirled and fell to the ground, his hand carefully cupping his face as blood trickled down his fingers and onto the sand washed stone. The Vasaath had his hand still positioned as though he could strike again, and his golden eyes were burning with anger as he glared at the young lord. “Do not utter such disrespect in front of me,” he said, his voice more threatening than Juniper had ever heard it before. “That woman is _ohkasethen_ , carrier of great wisdom of your people, and under _my_ protection.”

Lord Christopher still cupped his face, and remained on the ground. He looked bewildered, terrified, and highly embarrassed. He prompted his guards to do something, but the two guards knew better than to draw weapons surrounded by agitated Grey Ones twice their size.

“Leave this place,” the Vasaath growled. “You have brought dishonour upon your people and deserve no respect.” He stared at the lord, but when no one moved, the Vasaath roared, “ _leave_!”

Lord Christopher scurried to his feet with a whimper, and left the encampment without as much as a single glance over his shoulder, closely followed by Kasethen.

Juniper remained, as if shackled to the ground, and gawked. She knew, deep inside, that she probably should have left with Lord Christopher—she would certainly not want to anger the Vasaath further—but she could not move. She tried to wrap her head around what had just happened, but as soon as her mind fashioned the tale that the Vasaath had defended her, she renounced it, rendering it quite ridiculous. Fresh blood was spilt on the stone floor, and she was surprised to see how generous the amount was. Had Lord Christopher been seriously injured? Was she supposed to be upset about it, or pleased? She was torn from her frozen state as the general towered over her, and she looked at him with a gasp.

His eyes were still furious, and he forced her to shrink under his gaze. “How dare you bring someone so disrespectful to my doorstep?”

She tried to answer, but nothing would come out. She felt her legs buckle and her chest implode. Faintness started to come upon her, and before she knew it, she lost her balance. The Vasaath’s strong arms caught her in a painful grip, and she winced. “Please,” she let out. “Forgive me!”

The Vasaath scowled and lifted her slightly. “Steel yourself, woman.” He set her down on her feet, assuring himself that she would stand on her own before taking a step back. He looked rather displeased, but the flashing anger was gone, at least. He glared at her. “You should hurry back to your company. I would not expect the _Duke of Westbridge_ to turn a blind eye on me striking his son. You should not be here when that judgment comes.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. She searched for words to say—should she thank him for defending her honour? Should she grant him a favour for his deed? What was the Kas custom for gratitude?

“Have you lost your tongue?” he asked, rather sharply.

She shook her head. “Forgive me, my lord.” She shot down her gaze, curtsied, and hurried out towards the carriage. When she arrived, however, the carriage was gone. Kasethen was speaking with one of the guards, and once he noticed Juniper, he quickly strode up to her.

“I tried to stop them, my lady,” said he in earnest. “I told them that you would come, but the lord ordered the coachman to go or he’d have him hanged.”

Juniper cursed that coward, but felt suddenly very alone. The road back to Fairgarden was long, and passed the more dangerous districts. On top of it all, dusk was soon upon them. She would have to walk back, unchaperoned, unarmed, and vulnerable in the dark. Perhaps they would send her guards, once they realised that Lord Christopher had returned without her? Perhaps they would think the Vasaath held her hostage? Bitterly, she thought that she would much rather be the Vasaath’s hostage than Lord Christopher’s wife.

“My lady?” Kasethen’s soft voice made her gaze up.

“I’m sorry, Kasethen,” said she. “I… I’m so very sorry.”

He smiled comfortingly, and graciously invited her back into the fort. Juniper tried to keep her head held high, but it was difficult—she felt ashamed, degraded even, to have to return to the general with her tail between her legs. Tears were gathering at the brims of her eyes, but she held them back. She was led into the tent, but before she Vasaath had seen her, he growled something she could not understand. The violent message that whoever entered that tent was highly unwelcomed was, however, received.

Kasethen cleared his throat, and as the Vasaath turned and stared angrily, Kasethen bowed shortly. “The young lord and his entourage left without the lady.”

The Vasaath stood for a moment, his eyes fixed on Juniper. Then, he exhaled deeply and said, “very well.” That was all. He placed himself by his writing desk and started to angrily scribble down something on a piece of paper.

Juniper looked at Kasethen, who looked back at her with calm and comforting eyes. It made her relax, if only a tiny bit. At least she was accepted and tolerated.

The hours passed. No one came for her. No word was sent to her. It was as if she had been denounced, or simply forgotten.

The Kas offered her supper and beverages, and she might have had one too many glasses of wine. While the Vasaath had barely spoken a word the entire evening, Kasethen had become quite chatty after a few drinks. He was infinitely curious about the mainland culture—about their strange ways and customs—and Juniper was happy to share. He wasn’t even half as judgmental as the Vasaath, and he made interesting inquiries.

They laughed and enjoyed each other’s company, but Juniper felt somewhat awkward being in the Vasaath’s tent without directing her attentions to him. But he seemed unbothered by the conversation she held with his advisor. He had occupied himself with letters and books and seemed neither happy nor agitated by having her there. She was not unwilling to admit to herself that she felt—although awkward at times—perfectly at ease. The wine warmed her and loosened her; the pleasant company entertained her and reassured her. But when one of the warriors entered the tent to announce that a carriage had arrived, she felt somewhat relieved. Perhaps not because she wished to return home to Fairgarden, but perhaps because she felt as though she wasn’t being denounced or forgotten.

The Kas, however, all tensed up. At least, it was only a carriage and not an army of city guards. Kasethen rose from the table, mumbled some words to the Vasaath and left to greet whoever had arrived.

Juniper rose too, on unsteady legs, and looked to the general. He hadn’t gazed up from the book he was reading, and she slowly walked over to him. She knew not what madness had come over her as she gently put a hand on the general’s arm, just above his vambraces. His skin was hot under her fingertips, and even though she knew it was highly inappropriate of her, she couldn’t will herself to remove it. Slowly, she let her thumb caress him, and she felt his muscles stir beneath his skin. Softly, she said, “thank you, my lord, for accepting me when my own did not. I shan’t forget the kindness you’ve shown me.”

The Vasaath slowly turned to look at the hand on his arm, before turning his eyes to her. They were stern, dark, unwelcoming—threatening even.

Juniper quickly removed her hand and took a step back. “Forgive me, I—I did not think clearly.”

He bared his teeth to release a snarl just as the canvas parted and Kasethen reappeared.

“Your father’s advisor has come for you, my lady,” said he, and Juniper quickly curtsied to the general and followed Kasethen out of the encampment.

Hot shame welled up inside of her, and tears pressed on the ridges of her eyes. When she was finally seated in the carriage, face to face with Garret, she let her tears fall as the coachman urged the horses on.

“Lady Juniper,” said Garret, his voice filled with regret. “I must tell you, that your father is quite cross with you. I’ve tried to calm him, but he feels as though you’ve betrayed him.”

Juniper said nothing and looked out the window.

“If it is any comfort, I don’t doubt your loyalty,” he said, and Juniper answered him with a half-hearted smile. Inside, she might as well be dead.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Ohkas-enaan –** foreigner of importance; “not of Kas but of great importance”  
 **Ohkasethen** – foreign teacher; wise foreigner


	10. The Visitors: IX

** IX **

  
The feel of her small hand still lingered on his arm. He could still feel her caress, like a whisper against his skin. It had taken him every grain of willpower not to touch her back, to drag her into him, to breathe in her scent and revel. It had taken him everything he had not to let his fingers curl around her silken locks and pull her down, down beneath him. But she had recoiled from him, frightened. Had she noticed the wanting in his eyes? The desire he held for her? The imminent slip of his self-control? His urges were strong, and he had not truly known how strongly he felt for the girl until she was so viciously silenced by that pitiful man—nay, _boy_. He felt protective, possessive, and it angered him to no end. He had no right feeling the way he did. It was driving him mad, and the more he thought about how little he should care for the girl, the more he did. It was tearing him apart.

When Kasethen returned, the Vasaath decided that he could no longer fight it, and he needed council. He took a deep breath as said to his friend, “I desire the girl.”

Kasethen blinked, seemingly very surprised, but then hummed. “Are you sure?”

The Vasaath glared at him. “Do you think I would seek your wisdom if I wasn’t? I covet the human and it drives me mad.” He sighed and stood, before determinedly striding up to the table to pour himself a glass of wine.

“Perhaps,” said Kasethen, “it’s the lack of a _maasa_ that has you believing you crave for the lady? I could send for one of the _saath-maasas_.”

“No,” the Vasaath rumbled. “They are _ohkasenon_. They’re not trained to receive me.”

Kasethen pulled his brows together. “Well, they have _maasas_ in the city, if that would suffice? I believe they receive kings as well as soldiers. I could summon one for you, if that would please you.”

“No.” The Vasaath took a strengthening breath. “Humans have no _maasas_. They do not revere women like that. Either way, it isn’t merely release I seek.” He sighed. “It’s release through _her_.” He took a deep gulp of wine. “I cannot do anything without her haunting my mind; I dream of her, I long for her, I _yearn_ for her! It’s torture, Kasethen! And to make matters worse, I simply cannot allow myself to feel this way. What am I to do?”

Kasethen seemed at a loss for words. He knew, as well as the Vasaath, that any such relationship—physical or emotional—with an _ohkas_ was forbidden. The Vasaath did not take lovers; when his urges arose, he would let a _vas-maasa_ relieve him, as was a _maasa’s_ role. His seed was sacred, and only carefully selected females of his own kind would mate with him and receive it. Mating was ritualised, not done out of desire. A _maasa’s_ touch was healing, not tempting. It was thusly senseless of him to want a woman for himself, for his own pleasure. But such was the situation, and both the Vasaath and his advisor knew that nothing good could come out of this. They both also knew, however, that without a _maasa’s_ services, the Vasaath would go mad.

“Perhaps, my lord,” said Kasethen, “extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary measures.”

The Vasaath narrowed his eyes. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Well,” Kasethen hummed, “if you truly are troubled, then I’m confident that you, in lack of a _vas-maasa_ , surely wouldn’t find yourself under any scrutiny for doing whatever you need to calm your mind. If you say that you cannot perform your duty with such troubles, you _should_ do all you can to be rid of them.”

The Vasaath pondered for a moment. It was indeed true—the girl had occupied his thoughts more and more as of late, and soon, he wouldn’t be able to think about anything else. That would compromise them. He needed to stay sharp. But there was the problem with the human not being a _maasa_ —she had no obligation to relieve him. And even if she _was_ one, she still might not accept him. He would not wish to have her by force, there was no honour is such profanity, and she was without a doubt set out to marry that petty lord. Infidelity, she had told him, was a crime punishable by death in this city. He frowned. “She must want it.”

“Yes,” said Kasethen. “That, she must.”

“And how do I ensure that she is willing?”

There was a quick expression of smugness and mockery in Kasethen’s face before he said, gravely, “courtship.”

The Vasaath twisted his face into a disgusted scowl and muttered, “I will do no such thing!”

“My lord, you cannot suppose a young noblewoman to be willing without proper courtship,” said Kasethen.

“Courtship is the initiation of marriage,” the Vasaath spat. “I have no intention of entering such a preposterous arrangement, and it would be dishonest of me to pretend that I did.”

“Then the only things remaining are plain old flattery and seduction.”

“I am _Vasaath_! I do not flatter. I do not _seduce_.” Anger flared up inside him. He curled his hands into fists and began pacing.

“Then how do you want to overcome this obstacle?”

He muttered something indecipherable, before muttering, “why do humans have to be so difficult? They make the easiest things complicated far beyond measure.”

“My lord, mainlanders find it difficult to separate feelings from needs,” said Kasethen. “Physical relations outside of marriage are frowned upon, because they cannot separate the needs of the flesh from the needs of the heart. They believe it is the same thing.”

The Vasaath sighed deeply and said bitterly, “they also believe that their Builder will condemn them to an afterlife in the Netherworld if they lie with someone who isn’t their spouse. Oh, and apparently, this only applies to women, of course.” He huffed in disgust, unable to fail to see the insanity in the argument.

“So how will you go about it?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence fell between the two, but the Vasaath felt relief in having shared his burden with someone who seemingly understood his problem. It had, however, now dawned on him how difficult this situation truly was. There was no escaping it: he could no longer suppress his urges. He could be bold, he could present her with a proposition, but he knew the answer already. The way she recoiled from him was proof enough. She feared him. How could she then allow him to touch her, to lie with her?

“May I make a suggestion, my lord?” asked Kasethen, and the Vasaath gave him an encouraging gesture. Kasethen closed his hands together and started to slowly pace around. “Be gentle with her, be polite and gracious. Smile, revere her, compliment her, and perhaps you can stir her emotions enough to awaken her urges and needs.”

The Vasaath considered this. He didn’t like flatter, and he didn’t like the thought of having to chase something he otherwise was entitled to as an individual—sexual release was as necessary as food and water. It was a basic need that had to be satisfied for the individual to remain focused and centred. Deny it, and the building pressure would be expressed through recklessness and violence—or gloom and detachment. In any normal case, it wouldn’t matter who granted him release. His only demand was that his _vas-maasa_ was a woman—in dire times, even that didn’t matter. But this wasn’t a normal case—he had never felt longing for an _individual_ before. Indeed, there had been women of the People that had stirred his interest, especially in his youth; he remembered seeing a _maasa’s_ bare chest for the first time, and imagining how the fullness of her breasts would feel in his hands. He also remembered his first visit to a _maasa_ , how wonderful it had felt, and how his urges had been barely unquenchable for a time after that. But that was nothing uncommon. All individuals were curious once they reached a certain age, and sexual experiences were often pleasurable. It always took a few years to understand the differences between hedonism and true need. This was, however, a real need of his, and it wouldn’t be satisfied with anyone else but _her_. He sighed in defeat. “I’ll do my best, but it could take time. What if it takes too long?”

“Discipline, my lord,” said Kasethen. “Discipline.”

The Vasaath only glared at him, but said nothing.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Maasa –** _healer_  
 **Saath-maasa** – military healer  
 **Vas-maasa** – “healer of the leaders”


	11. The Visitors: X

** X **

  
“You have always been a disappointment, Juniper.” Richmond Arlington was a terrible man at times, but had always been a terrible father.

Juniper stood in front of his large desk in his study, her head bowed down and her hands knitted together. She had been crying since the carriage ride, and no one but Garret had noticed. Now, in front of her father, she could cry no more. She had no tears for him, and barely any love left to give him.

“Lord Christopher has seen a physician, thank the Builder,” said the Duke. “What were you thinking, bringing him to the invaders? He could have been killed, and then where would we be?”

“Father, it wasn’t my fault that Lord Christopher was reckless and disrespectful. I tried to keep him from going to the harbour, but he insisted.” She didn’t look at her father, the Duke, but her words were forced through gritted teeth.

“He was being brash, like any young man!” he spat. “That beast had no business laying hand on the son of the Duke of Westbridge!”

Juniper shot a glare at him. “The Vasaath was defending _my_ honour!” When seeing her father’s stern gaze, she quickly gulped and gathered herself. “Lord Christopher was vicious, unnecessarily so, and the general defended me when no one else would.”

The Duke sneered. “What _honour_? It is honourable spreading your legs to those grey bastards?”

She gasped, and couldn’t find words that would express how much hatred she felt for him at that very moment. She realised then that it would not matter what she said to her father—he would not hear it either way. Finally, she said, “the more I speak with them, and learn about their culture and customs, the more I wonder if we are really doing what is best for our people by standing against them.”

“You are blind,” her father spat. “Stupid, naive, and blind. Or perhaps you’d like a life in chains—you will get them either way, because I have just confirmed the arrangement with Lord Cornwall. You are to marry Lord Christopher by the end of the month.”

Juniper flushed in anger. “You can’t decide that.”

“I can and I have.”

“Without my consent?”

The Duke laughed cruelly. “Consent? There is nothing to consent to, dearest daughter. You are to marry into a great and noble house, as is your duty. There is no free will. You will do this, you have no choice in the matter.”

She gritted her teeth and said bravely, defiantly, “if I convert to the Kasenon, you will have no power over me, Father.”

The Duke’s face reddened with fury, and he shot up from his seat, causing his daughter to cower before him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Juniper! You’d rather show your neck to those _animals_ than honour your house and your people?!”

“You said it yourself,” she croaked. “It doesn’t matter what I do, I’ll still end up in chains. But I’d rather have masters that respect me than masters that spit on my very existence.”

“Respect you?” her father scoffed. “You think that grey demon _respects_ you? You’re a woman, for Builder’s sake, Juniper! You’re only good for one thing. When will you realise that?” He smirked, sat back down, and said, “if that general hasn’t had you yet, I’m sure he’s just biding his time. You see, men only want one thing with women, and if the man is powerful enough, he’ll have it sooner or later. Judging by your behaviour, I should just let him have you.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I _hate_ you!” she cried in a cracking voice, before turning on her heel and rushing out of the study. She was furious—fuming!—and knew not what to make of herself. She didn’t want to storm off into her room, she was too angry for that, but she had nowhere else to turn. After making sure to slam her door, she pushed a large sideboard in front of the door to barricade herself in. She wanted nothing to do with the world outside. She had been alone all her life. Her so-called _friends_ were nothing but shallow ladies-in-waiting who thought life was made out of silk and luxury. It was like torture having to listen to their mindless chatter, and so Juniper had always withdrawn to loneliness. In truth, she could scarcely remember last time she had what she considered a true friend. That was until she met the Vasaath and his advisor. Yes, she did indeed consider them her friends. Whether they felt the same for her, she did not know.

She wondered if she had been serious or not when speaking with her father—did she truly mean that she saw no difference between the chains of her own faith and the chains of the Kasenon? She knew that _her_ faith was not like the interpretation made by the Architects of the Structure; her faith revered kindness, sympathy, freedom… but her interpretation of the word of the Builder was far from the reality of those who exploited the Structure to rule over men—and womenfolk. This, she knew. This, she had been forced to face these past moons, in her deep conversations with the Vasaath. She had been forced to confirm and accept her fate as a woman in a world ruled by men. The Vasaath had told her, that the Kasenon did not put one sex above the other. A woman’s role was typically to counsel, to rear children, to heal… but there was nothing a woman was forbidden to do. The Vasaath had been very clear regarding that. If a woman was given the role of _kasaath,_ she was a warrior and required the same respect as any man of the army. The Great Mother ruled over them all, and no one would dare question a woman simply because of her sex. This, she had then told the Vasaath, was unlike anything she had ever heard of. It was too good to be true, but indeed it came with a price. That price was freedom—or rather, life. Which of the chains weighed heavier, Juniper could not tell.

She willed herself so sleep that night, partly out of pigheadedness, and partly out of exhaustion. When she awoke, a terrible banging was heard upon her door. She wearily arose, her hair dishevelled and her nightgown wrinkled. With great trouble, she pushed the sideboard back to its original place and unlocked the hinges of the door and opened it. Outside stood two large guards, a chambermaid in tears, and a bewildered Garret.

“My lady!” said he. “We thought something dreadful had happened to you!”

Juniper scowled. “Can’t I ever get some privacy? Can’t I, for _once_ , spend a morning in bed without being rushed awake?”

“But my lady,” said Garret, “they are announcing your engagement today.”

At once, her face soured. “He couldn’t even wait before all the details were settled before announcing it, could he? He couldn’t even wait _a day_?!”

“Your father is very eager to have it announced, my lady,” said Garret. “He claims it will show strength and unity to the people. You need to look your best.”

“He could make the decision without me; I’m sure he can announce it without me.”

“But, my lady… it is your wedding, after all.”

Yes, Juniper thought, it was _her_ wedding—but that did not stop her father. She thought of replying sharply, but held her tongue. She allowed the chambermaid to enter her room while Garret and the guards left. The chambermaid, Tilly, was a good sport. She spoke about things that she hoped would defuse the tension, even though she did not succeed. When Juniper was dressed, she made her way to the dining hall to have some breakfast, but she was quickly fetched by Garret and brought to her father in his study. He was behind his desk, writing something that was seemingly of importance. It seemed to be so important that his daughter would have to wait. She stood by the door, sighing and silently protesting.

Finally, he acknowledged her, even though he did not look at her. “I hope your attitude will be better at the announcement.”

“Why? So the people won’t see my dissatisfaction?”

“Oh, yes, everyone should feel so terribly sorry for you,” the Duke drawled. “How horrible it must be, being married to a wealthy lord and promised a prosperous life.”

“I am promised, against my will, to a _horrible_ and _pathetic_ excuse of a man!” Juniper spat.

“Spare me the self-pity, Juniper,” said her father. “It makes your face look aged. It’s unflattering. You will do as told. End of discussion.”

“But Father—”

“End of discussion.” Finally, he looked at her. But it was a short look, barely a glance, as he returned his attention to his work. “Tidy yourself up. We will reveal your engagement in an hour, and I won’t have my daughter looking like a kitchen maid.”

Juniper bit her tongue. It would be no use telling him that she had already tidied herself up, that it would get no better than this, and she left his study. She thought about running away, perhaps down to the docks. In a moment of weakness, she imagined the Vasaath coming to her rescue, lifting her in his strong arms and taking her away to a faraway land where he made her _his_ wife and promised to care for her and protect her always. But reality dawned on her and she realised that the Vasaath would not rescue her—he had no interest in her but to convert her, and she knew enough of the Kasenon to know that it was not the answer. Every step she took towards her future seemed to add another bar to her cage.

* * *


	12. The Visitors: XI

** XI **

  
The Vasaath was in a bad mood. A very bad mood. His spies had told him that the engagement between Lady Juniper and the joker was going to be announced that very day. At least it wasn’t the wedding itself, and that was a relief. That meant he still had time to hinder the alliance—and no marriage meant that he would have one less impediment to sway the heart of the fair Lady Juniper.

There was, however, the problem of the engagement itself. Of course, he could show his intent clearly and meddle by his own accord, but it would be stupid of him not to use the situation to create a rift between the two cities. He was confident that Lady Juniper was too clever to stand such a man, and if he could persuade her to refuse the man—and in that, refuse her father’s wishes—the rift between the cities would be a fact.

He waited for her to arrive that afternoon, but she never came. Kasethen pointed out that she might not have had the chance to get away from the celebrations, and the Vasaath accepted the situation. But she didn’t arrive the day after, either, and that was making him irritated.

“Quite the celebration,” said the Vasaath bitterly to Kasethen as the darkness fell.

“What do your spies say?”

“They haven’t seen her since the announcement.”

“Perhaps she hasn’t been out since then?”

The Vasaath just hummed and fell into deep ponder, and he could not deny that in the pit of his stomach, he felt worry. What was keeping her from him? Why would she not come to him? Was the engagement hindering her? If this were to last, he would have to go to Fairgarden himself to get her.

Every day more and more converters came to their doorstep, and more it seemed after the announced engagement—clearly, the Noxboroughers were not that fond of the Westbridge establishment. They were poor and dirty, sick and starving. Soon, they would need to be transported back to Kasarath to be fed and treated, before the encampment became too crowded.

It had been several days since the announcement. The Vasaath was in a foul mood. His spies had said that the Duke’s daughter had not been seen outside the castle, which cast the warlord into a worse mood. The rest of the warriors kept their eyes on the ground and their mouths shut and simply waited out the storm. When the dark fell on the seventh day of the lady’s absence, the Vasaath had to face the crude reality that she was not returning. The disappointment stung deep inside, but he could not—would not!—let his feeling get the better of him. It was not befitting for the Vasaath to show emotion outside the battlefield, but not only did the girl’s absence make him desire her even more, but he would also have to interpret it as a declaration of war.

That night, he stood at the battlements overlooking the sea, his hands closed behind his back. He tried to still his anger, but found it difficult. The only thing that would soothe him now, was the golden light from the warship lanterns and crimson sails on the horizon. But he did not need the aid of his brothers and sisters in defeating the Duke of Noxborough, and judging by the steadfast stream of converters, the populace would not resist submission. The nobles would not be able to hold their ground for long, and taking Fairgarden would be child’s play. If the Duke would not release the girl, the Vasaath would gladly burn the whole city down just to reach her.

“Great Warrior?”

The Vasaath turned to his advisor. “Yes?”

The man looked slightly nervous. “It’s the lady. She’s here.”

He could not describe the feeling that seared through him the very moment the advisor’s words sunk in—anger, relief, desperation, rage, all meddled up in one big knot in his chest—and he let it out in the only way he knew how. Growling darkly, he passed Kasethen and crossed the courtyard in long strides.

“Sir, I must beg you, calm yourself!” Kasethen hurried behind him. “Before you lay judgment on the girl, you must—”

“I must nothing,” the Vasaath rumbled. “If Noxborough wants war, I am happy to oblige.”

“Sir, I don’t believe that—”

But the Vasaath had already parted the canvas and stepped into his tent, and there, in the flickering light of the fire, stood Lady Juniper. She had returned—she had returned to _him_. But then, his heart stopped. It was not the beauty he had longed for, or the sweet scent that she carried; neither was it the bewitching silver eyes, nor the fouls thoughts that teased in the back of his mind that made him stop dead in his tracks. It was the shifting colours of blue, green and yellow on her fair face. A rage more intense than anything he had ever felt before rose in his chest and his thoughts blackened. He approached her, quickly and decisively, and the girl gasped and stumbled backwards.

“P-please, sir, forgive me, I-I did not intent to—”

He caught her chin in his hand before she could escape him, and it was not until she had frozen in his grasp that he realised he was standing so close, touching her lovely but bruised face. The want that seeped from the fingers on her skin, down his arms, and to his manhood had to be ignored—the rage was greater still. He observed the damage done to her thoroughly. The right side of her face was bruised, and he would recognise the agonising mark of a backhand anywhere. The cheekbone had taken the bulk of the beating, where the knuckles had struck. The darkest marking revealed an object, most likely a ring. “Who did this to you?” The darkness in his voice surprised even him as it escaped his depths.

He had not noticed that she was holding her breath before she wheezed out a small wail, but no words escaped her.

Why would she not tell him? Why would she protect a monster who would strike a woman so cruelly? He searched her eyes for a sign, but all he could find was terror and fear. Remembering what Kasethen had told him, about being gentle with the girl, he loosened his grip. He let his fingers slowly trace the shape of her jaw, tenderly and caringly. “Juniper… tell me, who did this to you?” A little softness was all that was needed before the girl melted into his touch and wept.

The Vasaath stood perplexed. The wailing of children, he knew; tears of loss and grief, he knew; tears of hurt and sadness, he knew; but how to console, how to comfort, he had never been taught. He, the Vasaath, had no business comforting cries—but now, he felt compelled to. If only he knew how.

“Hold her, sir.” Kasethen seemed to read the Vasaath like an open book, and for the sake of his pride, the Vasaath was relieved that the girl did not understand their words.

Slowly, he pulled the small female to him and it was a though her warmth melted into him. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around her and held her shaking frame as she sobbed against his chest. He heard Kasethen leave, and when all alone with the lady, he allowed himself to hold her a little tighter, to savour this small moment of tenderness and intimacy when he could forget his station and his mission and just embrace this woman. He could not deny the strong feelings he held for her, the intense sensation of wanting—no, _needing_ —to shield her and protect her. It then became clear to him that he would do anything for her, to have her. In a way, he had never felt more vulnerable in his entire life.

He held her for a long time, long after her tears had dried. She was still shaking and shivering, but she had calmed, and she seemed to enjoy the closeness just as much as he did. Although he did not wish to, he carefully pulled away and looked at her; redness and swelling from her tears was added to her face, but there was no longer fear in her eyes. “Sit down and I’ll pour you some wine.”

She wrapped her arms around herself as soon as he left her, and said, “I’m cold.”

“The wine will warm you a bit,” said the Vasaath. “Make yourself comfortable down on the rug. Wrap one of the furs around you.” He handed her the wine and said, with passion, “you’re safe here. With me.”

* * *


	13. The Open Cage: I

** I **

  
From the moment the Duke of Noxborough had made the announcement, Juniper had disappeared from the world. She saw the crowd as they cheered, and she saw the pleased smile on her father’s lips and the spiteful smirk on Lord Christopher’s face. It was badly bruised from the powerful strike the Vasaath had given him the day before, but that did not stop him from showing glee—and he made sure to show _her_ that he had won.

After the announcement, a feast was held. Juniper did not say much. She kept her gaze down and pretended like she did not hear the vile things that were said about her by her father, the Duke of Westbridge, and her husband-to-be, Lord Christopher. She tried to smile when the court ladies congratulated her, and she tried not to show her discontentment all too well. She wondered, as the evening dawned, if the Vasaath was waiting for her—if he was missing her company, even, as much as she missed his.

The feast lasted far into the night, and about an hour past midnight, Juniper excused herself. She withdrew to her room, but was followed by Lord Christopher. He was drunk, but he was strong, and he forced her against the wall in an empty hall.

“You think you can just sneak away like that?” he growled, his breath reeking of spirits. “My wife will _fucking_ learn!”

Juniper clenched her jaw tightly and muttered back, “I am _not_ your wife. Not yet.”

The young lord chuckled spitefully before he hissed, “I’ll show you how I teach my women to obey.”

“You are a fool if you think you can touch me without consequences!”

He only laughed, a vicious laugh, before he forced his mouth onto hers in a greedy and violent kiss. Juniper was aghast and fought to push him away. When he didn’t move, she resorted to biting his already bruised lip so hard she drew blood.

He howled and stepped away, his hand at his bleeding mouth. Juniper gasped, shocked by her own actions. She had hurt the Duke’s son, her betrothed—but when he saw the scarlet drops on his fingertips, he just laughed again. He was left-handed, and his strike was as unforgiving as it was sudden. She felt how blood filled her mouth as she fell to the floor. Her ears were ringing and she could barely feel the right side of her face. She waited for the next strike, but it did not come. Instead, the lord just crouched beside her and said, “oh, you will learn.” He gave her a last smirk, his lip still bleeding, before rising and leaving her alone on the stone floor.

Juniper was in shock. The sudden pain was worse than anything she had ever experienced, worse than her governess’s rod, but the shock and horror were greater still. She tried to rise, but her head was spinning too much. After a few attempts, she managed to get on her feet, but she could barely stand on her own. Slowly, while tracing the cold stone walls, she made her way to her room. Her vision was blurred and her ears still rung terribly. She cried. Never in her entire life had she felt such hopelessness in her heart. She had been struck, ravished, and humiliated; her first kiss had been stolen, defiled, and she had received nothing but the promise of a terrible future. One way or another, she had to find a way out of this engagement—she would rather die than marry that monster.

Before going to bed, she made sure to barricade her door once more, fearing she might get an unwelcomed visitor during the night if she did not. Sleep did, however, not bless her that night. The moment she closed her eyes, she felt the sting on her face even more. She was afraid—truly afraid. No one at Fairgarden cared enough about her to see—or even care about—what a heinous partnership she was being forced into; she was being left to the wolves. She was a stranger in her own home.

When morning dawned, she had lost all hope. She stayed in bed until Garret came knocking. She knew it was him, because no one knocked as softly as he did. There was, however, no energy left in her to rise.

“ _My lady_ ,” said Garret through the door. “ _Your father is asking for you down for breakfast_.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“ _Please, Lady Juniper… your father insisted that—_ ”

“You can tell my father that I am not hungry.”

“ _He said he will get you down there even if he has to get the guards… to drag you down._ ”

With a sigh, she rose from the bed and proceeded to push the sideboard away from the door. When she opened to face Garret, she was not ready for the horrified hiss that escaped him.

“My lady!” He stared at her. “What has happened?”

Juniper realised that it was her face that he was looking at. It did not hurt as much anymore, but it strained, and she was swollen. For a moment, she thought it would be best if she just lied and said that she had had a bad fall, but she refrained. Why not tell every soul of Lord Christopher’s character and viciousness? Surely, no one cared about a woman scorned or beaten—but a good Duke was supposed to be benevolent and chivalric. Lord Christopher was neither. She took a deep breath and said, “this is how my soon-to-be husband has decided to brand me.”

Garret said nothing, but she could see the hurt in his eyes—and the guilt, like a tarnished veil.

“Tell my father that I will be down shortly.” Juniper straightened. “I need to ready myself.”

He nodded. “Yes, my lady. And… if there is anything you need, please let me know.”

“Thank you, Garret.”

The advisor nodded and left. Juniper dressed in a simple dress and braided her hair modestly. She had no strength to tidy herself up, and for whom would she make herself pretty? Her abuser? She would rather not. The looking-glass showed her a red and purple eye and cheekbone, swollen and misshaped. She quickly dried the tears that started to fall, and then she straightened her back and raised her head. She would not let them break her. When she entered the breakfast parlour, her father glanced at her. He noticed her bruised and swollen face, but only scoffed.

“I see you have fallen flat on your face,” he said mockingly.

Juniper said nothing as she sat down by the table.

Her father sneered and looked at Sebastian. “Have you ever met anyone as fumbling as your sister?”

Sebastian said nothing and shrugged. He stared down into his plate of food, his rosy cheeks even redder in the faint morning light spilling in from the tall windows.

“I don’t expect you to care, Father, but this was not a fall,” Juniper said, at last. “Lord Christopher felt as though he wasn’t pleased with me, so he decided to punish me.”

“Well, I’m sure you deserved it.”

She clenched her jaw. Her father was a deplorable man, and yet, she couldn’t seem to cease being shocked by his foulness. She raised her chin and said, “I can’t expect the Vasaath to be happy when he learns that I have been hurt.” Whether or not that was true, she did not know. She could only hope—and hope, she did.

“Your precious Vasaath won’t know, because your little _quest_ is over.” Her father glared at her, a smirk plastered on his face. “You won’t be going to the encampment anymore.”

She felt her heart stop. “What? What do you mean?”

“In fact,” he continued, “because of your reckless and _preposterous_ actions last you were there, you are not fit to be outside Fairgarden.”

Coldness spread through her body as the words sunk in. “I don’t understand. You can’t force me to stay at home!”

“I can and I will.”

“I am your _daughter_ ,” she huffed. “Not you _prisoner_!”

“Yes, you are my daughter, and you are to be married,” her father said harshly. “I cannot have you running about with _savages_ doing Builder knows what! You will stay here until the wedding, Lord Christopher will claim you as his and hopefully put a son in you, and then you will be taken to Westbridge.”

“You cannot make me!” She flung from her chair, tipping over glass and plate. Everyone gasped at her sudden outburst, but Juniper would not sit down. Her heart was pounding, her face was throbbing, and the seconds passed agonisingly slowly as she waited for her father’s judgment—but she would not sit down.

“You will obey!” her father bellowed, his face red.

Sobbing, desperate, she pointed at the doors to the room. “I will walk out of those doors and never come back if you do this to me, Father.”

But the Duke seemed unfazed by this threat. “Guards will make sure you don’t leave the castle grounds. I’ve told them to use force if necessary.”

Juniper tried to reply, but she had nothing to say. Her world had shattered. She was a prisoner, shackled by neck, hands, and feet, and she had nowhere to run.

That day went by as through a haze. She did not speak to anyone, nor did she look anyone in the eye. She kept gazing out the window, and she had not realised before how much she truly enjoyed and cherished her freedom. But it was rare to truly appreciate something before it was gone. Her father had ordered two guards to follow her every step, and they were ruthless. If she just walked a few steps too close to a door leading outside, they would correct her. They barred her windows in her room, and they stood outside her door when she was about to sleep for the night.

They followed her, day after day. Lord Christopher was crueller and crueller each day, calling her names and forcefully touching her body in ways she did not like on occasions that were anything but proper. Her face was turning from an ugly shade of dark purple to green, and she had not spoken to anyone for two days. But three days after the announcement, during supper, the two Dukes were discussing matters of war. Yes, it was decided that they were going to force the foreigners off their shores. They had the greater numbers, and they hid behind their truce. The Westbridge army would aid them, but the Duke of Westbridge wanted the marriage between his son and Juniper to be completed and consummated before issuing the order of stationing.

Juniper was boiling on the inside. Not only did the two fools think they would humiliate the Kas warriors—she had seen them spar, and that would be enough to kill any human soldier—but they also thought the truce was still intact. She could not help but smirk; for once, her miserable situation could have led to something good. The Vasaath was not a man to trifle with; if their end of the bargain required an ambassador, and that ambassador was not provided, there would be no deal. There would be no truce, and the façade they were hiding behind would crumble in due time.

“You can prepare all you want,” she then said, surprised by her own calmness. “The Vasaath knows this is war. Keeping me from the encampment was a mistake. He will retaliate, mark my words.”

Duke Arlington smiled a rather strained smile and said, “you know a lot about war and politics, do you now?”

“I know that the Vasaath and his army will crush any adversary coming their way, and that includes you.” She straightened herself and said, “to think _you_ , a buffoon, could beat such a remarkable and powerful man? Don’t make me laugh.”

Her father’s face was red—purple, almost—as he tossed his napkin on the table and stood from his chair. He fixed his cuffs before striding up to his daughter, and with a quick but decisive swing, he struck her over her already swollen cheek.

Juniper gasped as she fell from the chair, shocked and aghast. Her hand flew to her cheek, and she felt warm liquids drip from her as scarlet drops stained the wooden floors. Looking up at her father, she saw him wipe her blood from his ring before walking back to his chair and resuming his dinner, as if nothing had happened. Everyone around the room seemed as shocked as her—a Duke did not beat his children. And yet, he did. She stood, furious and devastated, and marched back to her room. If it was not clear to her before, she now knew that she hated her father more than anything. Perhaps she did love him once, but that was a long time ago.

She could barely cry. A tear or two escaped her, but that was solely because of the pain—she had already shed too many tears over her father. She heard the guards murmur to each other outside her door and she realised that she would have to find a clever way to escape. She would have to find a way to the Vasaath, to warn him, and to tell him that her father needed to be stopped.

It was close to impossible to find a way past the guards. She tried pleading with them, tried to appeal to their better nature—she even tried to seduce them with her femininity—but the guards her father had appointed were fiercely loyal to him and did not take orders from a woman. She had to patiently wait for an opportunity when they did not watch her, and she discovered that that opportunity presented itself at lunch seven days into her imprisonment—two big and strong men had to eat, but they were not allowed to eat in the same parlour as the lady. Usually, they were relieved by two other guards, given that Lady Juniper was to be watched every minute, but on this particular day, their relievers were late. Juniper had to act fast—any minute now, and the other guards could be on their way. The two burly men were hungry and frustrated, and their bellies rumbled.

Cocking her head to the side, she said, with the sweetest smile she could muster, “oh, but why don’t you go and eat? I don’t want you to starve!”

The two guards looked at each other, but stood firmly in place.

“They by all means,” she continued and gestured to the empty seats around the table. “Sit down, please! Eat! There’s plenty of food and I cannot eat it all on my own.”

“No, no!” said one guard. “Don’t let us disturb your lunch, milady! Suppose the lads will be coming soon anyway.”

“Oh…” Juniper tried desperately to imagine a good excuse for them to hurry away from her. “Perhaps they stayed for dessert! I heard the cooks made sweet pudding. Lord Christopher loves it, and perhaps there is some left.”

Sweet pudding was the one treat the cook made that no one could resist. The guards exchanged looks before one of them hummed and said, “but we have our orders, milady. You are to be watched every minute of every day.”

She chuckled, as sweetly as she could, fluttered her eyelashes, and said, “I would never put you in trouble!” Then, with great effort, she made herself look sad and weak. “I wouldn’t dare go against my father’s wishes. I know my place.”

The guards seemed pleased. They bowed and left the parlour in a scurry. Juniper didn’t waste any time. She snuck out of the room and through the corridors. Luckily, she had been a lonely child and her only pastime used to be running around Fairgarden, finding out its secrets. She knew which halls the maids and hands used to avoid, and she knew every way in and out of the castle—and would know even with her eyes blindfolded. She grabbed a cloak down by the hands’ entrance and covered herself up before she headed into the late summer afternoon.

She had to hide her face underneath the hood of the cloak. Before this day, she had only gone outside as herself, as Lady Juniper—never before had she gone outside as an anonymous young woman amongst the people. For a moment, she felt free. She had no eyes following her every step, no one grovelling after her to praise her to the Builder. She was simply one of the people.

The road towards the encampment was rather long, and it passed through the poorer districts of the city, but she would be inconspicuous—unrecognisable. The Duke wasn’t loved by everyone, least not the poorer citizens, and being the daughter of the Duke, walking about unchaperoned in those districts, was dangerous. Juniper tried to blend in, tried to look as plain as she could while walking along the cobbled stone streets. She heard people talk about Duke Cornwall and Lord Christopher, about how Duke Arlington squandered time and tax money entertaining posh and spoiled Westbridge royalty, and about how much they felt for Lady Juniper for having to marry such a pig. Some, on the other hand, said that it was about time the Duke’s daughter finally did something good, spread her legs, and started to breed like a good woman ought to. She was rather shocked by some of the profanity that some people would utter—and especially men. It was worse than anything she had ever heard her father say. They spoke about her in ways that disgusted her, terrified her, and made her wonder what the populace really thought of the ruling family. Did they truly want to hurt her? _Rape_ her?

She hurried along the streets, tears prickling behind her eyes. The freedom she had felt when stepping out into the streets had disappeared, and left her trembling. For a moment, she thought she might turn back, but then she heard the same kind of vicious laugh Lord Christopher had uttered the night he struck her and she knew she would rather die than return to that nightmare.

She hurried her steps even more. In panic, she bumped into people back and forth and at one point she even dropped her hood. Men called after her, called her names, asked for her company, reached for her, but she hurried along. She had quickly pulled the hood back over her head, but she was terrified someone had recognised her. What was even worse was that she started hearing the armoured guards marching down the streets, and she heard her name being voiced several times—they were already looking for her. Of course they were. If they found her, they would drag her back, and she would be locked into her room like a true prisoner.

It took her until nightfall getting down to the docks. When she finally saw the mighty Kas warriors guarding the entrance to the fort, she felt relief like a cold shower falling over her head. She almost stumbled trying to reach them, and finally, it was as though the air left her and she reached her hand out for them. She knew them, and their faces twisted in surprise and relief—and horror.

“Lady Juniper!” said one of them. “Are you all right? Why are you here? Why are you alone?”

Tears were on their way again, but she pushed them back. “Please… I need to speak with the Vasaath. It’s important.”

The two warriors looked at each other, and exchanged words in their language. Juniper could hear _Kasethen_ , but nothing else made much sense. One left and returned shortly with Kasethen trailing behind, and the advisor stopped dead in his tracks once he laid his golden eyes on her.

“ _Ohkas-enaan_! Lady Juniper!” said he. “What are you doing here? And what—” He stopped himself just as Juniper had pulled her hood down. His dark brows knitted and he reached out a gentle hand to raise her chin. “My lady… who did this to you?”

Juniper tried to tell him. She knew he would listen if she told him, but she could not get the words out of her mouth.

Kasethen seemed to understand and sighed deeply. “We did not think that you would return to us.”

“Is he very angry with me?”

The advisor clenched his jaw. “He knows it isn’t your fault. But yes, he is angry.”

That little shred of hope that had lingered inside of her, seemed to disappear. Even the Vasaath, the one she thought would protect her, had cast her aside. “He doesn’t want to see me. I understand. I will leave.”

“No. I cannot turn you away,” said Kasethen. “It’s in the middle of the night, of course we shall offer you shelter. I cannot offer you more than that—the invitation has to be extended by the Vasaath himself. Now, come with me, and I will speak to him.”

Juniper nodded. She understood the rules and the etiquette—she only feared that the Vasaath would be as hostile towards her as her own family was. But she followed Kasethen into the fort. The warriors all turned their eyes towards her and all conversation went quiet. Juniper kept her eyes on the ground. She was taken into the Vasaath’s tent where she was asked to wait while Kasethen fetched the warlord. While she waited, she felt her heart hammer so hard inside her chest, she feared it might burst. Would he throw her out? Would he hurt her? Would he kill her? When he entered, as tall and as majestic as ever, she knew the answer. His eyes were dark, his teeth were bared, and his build was tense like a predator as he strode towards her. She gasped and stumbled backwards, knowing in her very bones that he would kill her if he got his hands on her.

“P-please, sir,” gasped she, “forgive me, I-I did not intent to—”

But his arms were long and before she knew it, he had caught her in a harsh grip. His large hand pinched her chin and forced her face upwards. She froze, terrified and devastated. She held her breath. The Vasaath was close, his hand warm and coarse as his clawed fingers teased at the soft skin of her throat. Juniper was sure he could feel her racing heartbeat, and she wondered how many moments she had left in this life before he strangled her. His golden eyes were still dark, but drawn to the bruises on her face.

A deep snarl escaped him as he said, “who did this to you?”

His voice was so unlike him, she felt the air she had been holding escape her, but she could not speak. Her body was trembling and she wondered what horrible fate awaited her now.

The Vasaath demanded an explanation. Even though he did not order it directly, his eyes proved it. But then, his grip softened, as did his eyes. His grip was no longer vicious—he was simply holding her. She felt his coarse thumb gently caress her, and a storm of emotions welled up inside of her. It was the validation she had been seeking, the security she had needed.

“Juniper…” The way her name rolled off his tongue sent shivers down her spine. “Tell me, who did this to you?”

Such soft and caring words had been absent all her life, and it dawned on her that the Vasaath would not kill her nor throw her out—he would protect her, give her a place. She was safe. As the realisation hit her, she broke down in tears. She could hear Kasethen say something in their language, and shortly after, she was shocked to feel the Vasaath pull her into his embrace. It was warm and secure, and she realised that this was something she had been starved for: intimacy, security, care. She buried her face into his chest and cried. He smelled of leather and spices, and it soothed her. He held her for a long time, and her tears had long dried. She did not want to part from him—she wanted to be held, forever.

Her whole body screamed as he slowly pulled away. The warmth disappeared, along with the sense of absolute security. Juniper wrapped her arms around herself.

The Vasaath looked at her and said, “sit down and I’ll pour you some wine.”

“I’m cold.”

“The wine will warm you a bit,” said he. “Make yourself comfortable down on the rug. Wrap one of the furs around you.” A few moments later, he handed her a cup of wine, and as he did, he said, “you’re safe here.” There was something different in his voice, and he looked deep into her eyes and added, “with me.”

Unexpected shivers ran along her spine as she gazed into his golden eyes. She felt her cheeks flush, and even though she knew it would never happen, she could not help but wonder how happy she would have been if Lord Christopher, her husband-to-be, would cause such shivers. She did as he suggested and placed herself on the soft rug and wrapped a fur around her. The wine did help with the warmth and soon, she felt safe and comfortable enough to drift away.

“Lady Juniper.” The Vasaath’s voice pulled her back. “As my guest, I cannot let you spend the night on the rugs. Go lie down in my chamber. It’s warm and private. I’ll sleep on the rugs.”

“No…” she hummed. “I cannot let you do that, sir.”

“I insist.”

She was too tired to argue and obliged him instead. She thanked him, bid him good night, and withdrew through the thick fabric that hung behind his desk. Inside, there was nothing but a bed. It was sparsely built, but it appeared to be soft and comfortable—and it smelled of _him_. Lying down, it was as though he was embracing her again, and she fell blissfully into a deep sleep.

* * *


	14. The Open Cage: II

** II **

  
In his dreams, she squirmed underneath him. Her soft, fair skin was glistening with small beads of sweat and her delightful breasts bounced in the rhythms of his thrusts. Her passage was smooth as it embraced his manhood tightly. She moaned, pleaded, sang, and wailed. She tasted like paradise, and he would never let her go. When he woke up, however, his strained member was aching and wanting, and he had nowhere to turn for privacy. The girl was sound asleep in his inner chamber, and he was out on the rugs by the fire. The only place where he would find privacy and solace was in the privy, and he simply had to reconcile with the fact that he had to relieve himself like a regular _kasaath_. It was beneath him to be so weak, to dream such inappropriate dreams about an honoured guest—but he knew he couldn’t control his mind in his sleep, and while relieving himself, the memories of his dreams were vivid and he even allowed himself to expand on them, just a little.

The thoughts lingered long after. When he had his breakfast together with Lady Juniper, images from his dream haunted his mind. When the girl smiled at him, he had to restrain himself, but he couldn’t prevent himself from imagining her writhing beneath him. He wanted to feel her soft skin under his fingertips again. He wanted to touch her, to have her. She did come back to him—that had to mean something? Having her so close and yet so far away was torture, and _discipline_ would be difficult. There was, however, something inside him that was stronger than his desires, and that was anger; he felt insatiable anger towards whoever did such awful things to the woman in front of him. But he already knew who the culprit was—and that vain young lord would die at the hands of the Vasaath, if it was the last thing he did. He was nevertheless surprised to feel hate so strongly when he rarely felt anything like that. Feelings, although necessary, were to be controlled. His hatred was not. His anger was not. His desire… was not. The girl had him lose control, something that was rare for him, and what made him even angrier was seeing her so sad.

She said very little that day. He watched her, but she seemed sombre. She didn’t leave the tent for the whole day and whenever the Vasaath or anyone else entered, she stiffened. After dinner, when the two of them had settled down in silence—she by the table, and he on the rugs—the Vasaath intended to inquire why she seemed to feel unsafe, but she beat him to it.

While sipping on a glass of wine, she asked, “has anyone come looking for me?”

The Vasaath knitted his brows. Of course that was why she had been so worried. He sighed. “They are not welcome here anymore. Keeping you from me had to be seen as a breach of the peace treaty. Any guards coming here do so at their own risk. You are perfectly safe here.” Their eyes locked, and he tried his best to hide his innermost wishes. The girl’s cheeks were flushed from the wine, and her eyes… In the back of his mind, he imagined them to be begging him to touch her, but he knew that was not the truth.

After a while, she looked away from him and lowered her head. “You must think I look hideous.”

The Vasaath frowned and snorted. “You must think I only see beauty as visual appeal.”

She shot her head back up. “No, I—”

“But if that is the case,” he continued, and he allowed himself to smile, just a little, “I find it very difficult to believe such a temporary thing as a _bruise_ would affect a face as attractive as yours.” The girl blushed violently, and the Vasaath felt very pleased with himself. There was a strange sense of reward in flatter he had not experienced before—then again, he had not indulged in flatter before. The effect it had on the girl satisfied him, and the most satisfying part was that he did not have to lie. She was indeed very attractive, and if he wanted to rush the process of… well, _courting_ her, he had to make her aware of his interest.

“Do you truly find me… beautiful?” Her voice was small, uncertain.

“I may not be of your kind,” said he, “but Iʼm not blind.”

“Now you flatter me, sir,” said she.

The Vasaath shrugged. “I do, but I am also stating facts.” He spied a smile on her lips, and his innards jolted. “Surely, you must have heard of your allure elsewhere.”

The smile faded. “What has been expected of me has always been beyond my capacity.” She sighed deeply. “Indeed, I have rarely been called hideous, or haggish… but people seldom call me beautiful. My station allows most people to be, well, _disappointed_.”

This surprised him greatly—indeed, he wasn’t of her kind and their opinions and views on beauty differed quite drastically from the mainlanders’, but he wasn’t foolish. He understood and could even appreciate their focus on aesthetics and looks, but he did not quite understand their rules. Logically, Lady Juniper would be considered as very beautiful; her dark hair was a pleasing contrast to her pale skin, her silver eyes were enchanting, and her frame was feminine enough—as he knew the mainlanders liked it. Deep in wonder, he stood to refill his glass of wine. Then he turned and asked, “why?”

The girl seemed uncomfortable, but she indulged him. “Being the daughter of the Duke, I’m expected to reach a certain standard. My hair should be brighter, my face should be painted, my eyes should be blue or green, my waist should be smaller, and my… bosom, should be fuller.” She sighed. “I’m simply not enough.”

The Vasaath listened carefully, but he didn’t understand. He knitted his brows and took a seat by the table. “So you live with impossible expectations just because of your station?”

The girl smiled sombrely. “No one wants their royal family to look like simple peasants.”

“Beauty then,” said the Vasaath, “isn’t only pure aesthetics to your kind, but aesthetics in relation to rank? A peasant girl with your looks would be considered a beauty, but you aren’t?”

She lowered her eyes.

The Vasaath gritted his teeth. “Such insolence would be unacceptable with the Kas.”

“Then how do you define beauty?” She leaned her arm on the table, and her hair slid down her shoulder. The huff of air that travelled to the Vasaath’s nostrils forced him to steel himself.

“Strength of character,” said he, determined to make it through the conversation without having to distance himself from her, “conviction, and self-assertiveness are all traits of beauty to the Kas. We do value aesthetics as well—red and black are colours we prefer, and we value graceful and strong movements.”

She cocked her head. “Movements?”

The corners of his lips twisted. “Yes. Every soldier learns how to move correctly, and every movement has a purpose.” Slowly, he extended his arm outwards in a straight line. “The sword has to be an extension of the self, and thus the arm has to carry the heft of the weapon. Done correctly, the movement is beautiful. Everyone moves differently in their roles—a soldier moves in one way, a _maasa_ in another; a baker’s movements when kneading the dough are beautiful when done correctly, as are the movements of a thatcher, or a carpenter.” He eyed her carefully while leaning in over the table. “So, you see, we don’t judge according to rank. A beautiful woman is beautiful no matter her station.”

The deep shade of red on the girl’s cheeks gave him a rush. Perhaps, he thought, it would go faster than he’d anticipated. He certainly hoped so—he knew not how much longer he could stand it.

* * *


	15. The Open Cage: III

** III **

  
It could have been the wine, or the exhaustion that had come across her the moment she entered the encampment—but it was presumably the low vibrations of the Vasaath’s voice and the intentions in his words that caused the turmoil inside of Juniper. Her heart beat loudly in her chest and her ears, and she felt numbness upon her… she tried to convince herself that it didn’t mean anything; the Vasaath was hardly interested in her in such a way, she wasn’t of his kind. He found her beautiful, but that did not have to mean a thing. It was, however, difficult for her to try to convince herself of that when he kept looking at her with that burning gaze of his, his golden eyes as rich as honey. But she did wish—oh how she wished!—she could catch the eye of someone like the warlord, if there only was any human like him somewhere.

She had to look away, for the general’s eyes became too intense, too intimate. She had to change the conversation. She cleared her throat, kept her gaze on the table, and said, “what happens now? With the peace, I mean?” There was a tense silence which made her slowly raise her eyes again.

The Vasaath’s demeanour had changed. His eyes had hardened, his jaw had clenched. Slowly, he straightened. “Your engagement with Lord Christopher tells us that your father and the Duke of Westbridge are forging an alliance. I have to assume they are preparing for war. And so must I.”

Juniper swallowed hard. “I need you to know,” she started, but knew not how to continue. She sighed. “My father… I had no say in the arrangement. My father and Lord Cornwall made the decision despite my objections. My wishes and feelings were ignored in the matter, as in most matters.” She laughed nervously and shook her head. “Forgive me, I don’t know why I needed you to know that… I—I just want to assure you that I am still an advocate for peace.”

“Peace,” said he and knitted his brows, “is not on the table, and I am even less inclined to spare these lands when I see the evidence of the savagery you were put through, my lady.”

Juniper exhaled an unsteady breath. When being imprisoned in her own home she wondered whether or not it was foolish of them to fight the Kas—would it perhaps be better to just submit to the Kasenon? Would it be easier? When shut inside her room, filled with hatred towards her father and the Duke and his son, she certainly thought so. But now… Despite feeling safe with the Vasaath and despite running to him on her own accord, she wasn’t so certain anymore. To hear the warlord himself speak of war and doomed peace was terrifying. Talk of war was never pleasant, but when he spoke of it, it sounded much more sinister. How much death would follow? How much suffering would ensue? She had failed her mission—it was indeed all her fault. Had she not been sent as the ambassador, the treaty would not have been broken because of her absence. Had she not been sent to the Vasaath, she would not have been under his protection, and her terrible fate, which was sealed the moment she was born into this world, would not have been an insult to his honour. It was indeed her fault that thousands of people were going to lose their lives at the hands of the Kas warriors. She tried to keep her voice steady as she said, “please, sir… I beg you to reconsider. Lord Cornwall and my father won’t make an alliance without me, and I am here, am I not? He has no more daughters to marry off.”

A deep groove had formed between the Vasaath’s eyebrows. Then he sighed and blinked slowly. “My lady, do you trust your father?”

She was taken aback by the question. It was unfair. Did he think she was a fool? “Forgive me, my lord, but if I tell you I do, you’ll call me gullible. If I tell you I don’t, you will ask how I could ever expect _you_ to trust him.”

“Then how _can_ you expect me to trust him?” he said, his teeth gritted.

“I never expected you to trust him,” Juniper said, her voice louder than she intended, “but I trusted _you_. My father is incompetent, yes, but I thought _you_ had more patience than that!”

He glared at her and his anger was sudden and explosive. “I did not come here to deal with your petty politics! I came here to conquer. _Peace_ was never an option.”

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms as she yelled, “then why am I here?”

His nostrils flared, his eyes burned, and his body tensed. “Yes,” he roared, “why _are_ you?”

Juniper was taken aback, shocked. She had felt so welcomed, and now she felt… rejected. She knew not what delusions she had been under, but it was clear now that the Vasaath did not keep her because he cared, but because he only played along with her father’s charades—now when the lies had been discovered, there was no more need for her. Now she was just a pawn in the game of power and leverage.

The general seemed to try to contain his anger, but with little success. He growled lowly, “I think that is enough conversation for today.”

And that was the end of it. Juniper did not dare press on, for she feared she might lose her temper altogether. She rose, said good night like a civil person, curtsied, and left for the inner chamber. Indeed, she had not been granted the privilege to spend another night in a comfortable bed, but she didn’t bother asking. She figured it would not matter—war was coming either way. What was such a small insolence in the grand scheme of things?

* * *


	16. The Open Cage: IV

** IV **

  
His breaths were shallow, frustrated, and his hands were balled into fists. Yes, why _was_ she there? Why had she come back to him? There had to be a reason. Their argument had ended badly, and he did not like it. He rarely lost his temper like that—usually, he was very calm and collected in arguments; his judgments may be swift, but his words were calm. Tonight, they were not. He made it sound as though he didn’t want her there, but that was as far from the truth as anyone could get. How could he make her understand that the bruises in her face caused him anger blacker than the blackest of darkness? How could he explain to her that he could not bear seeing her leave now? That he did not want to argue with her, but hold her? He shut his eyes and tried to compose himself. She was still infuriating at times, but he would rather be infuriated with her than be without her.

If she only submitted, he thought, everything would sort itself out. She would be _maasa_ , and she would be his. He ignored the voice of reason inside his head that said the chance of her becoming one was minuscule—she was _ohkasethen_ , bearer of great wisdom of her people, and it would not be proper for him to want her. It would never be. And yet, he did.

The morning after gave the promise of a beautiful day. The sun shone bright on an endless blue sky, and the sea carried chilly and soothing breezes. The Vasaath had his morning tea by the battlements, overlooking north. Kasethen was his company, and the two had discussed the next step in the plan. They had yet to receive word from the Kas army, but a forceful invasion was imminent. Kasethen wasn’t pleased, but he knew better than to question the Vasaath’s decisions.

“And how are things progressing with the girl?” Kasethen asked in an attempt to diverge from the horrors of war.

“Well, I believe,” said the Vasaath. “She responds well to kindness and gentleness, just as you predicted.”

“And flattery?” Kasethen hid his smugness very poorly.

The general glared at his advisor. “Yes, that too.”

“I must admit,” said Kasethen, still smug, “I am surprised that you allowed yourself to flatter her.”

“Seeing how it affected her, I am very pleased I did,” said the Vasaath. “In fact, I felt satisfaction from it as well.”

“Yes,” said Kasethen, “a blushing face is indeed a notable reward.”

“It is,” the Vasaath agreed, “but any woman from the mainland would blush if a lord complimented her.” He sighed. “In these wretched lands, women seldom hear words of encouragement and praise. They hardly know how to receive them.”

“So you worry she doesn’t see—or doesn’t return—your interest?”

The Vasaath exhaled deeply and clenched his jaw. “She came back… that means something, doesn’t it?”

Kasethen knitted his brows. “And what would that be?”

“I don’t know, Kasethen. Why would she come here instead of running? She could have gone anywhere… start a new life in another city… be someone else. Why return here?”

“Perhaps she didn’t know what to do. I hear the spies say the guards have been looking for her—perhaps she felt as though this was the only place where she’d be safe.”

“Exactly!” said the Vasaath, impatiently. “She feels safe here! _Safe_ , Kasethen. That _means_ something.”

Kasethen sighed. “Sir, with all due respect… you can interpret all you want, but if you don’t speak to her about this, you will never know. She’s a lady of the mainland—she is taught to keep her thoughts to herself, and she would never confess anything of this nature to someone, least of all a man, above her own station.”

The Vasaath pondered this, and hummed.

“Is it wrong of me to assume you are _hesitant_ on bringing it up, sir?”

He hummed again.

“And why is that?”

The Vasaath looked at his advisor. “What if she doesn’t return the sentiment?”

Kasethen nodded. “A worry I can understand—no Kas female in her right mind would ever reject you, Great Warrior, but this girl is not of the _enon_. Foreign cultures are sometimes difficult to understand.”

“What if it frightens her? What if she expects what I cannot offer?”

“You mean marriage?”

“Yes.” The Vasaath hated that word—he hated the whole concept of _marriage_. The humans of these lands were obsessed with it, but it symbolised nothing but a bigoted way of either controlling another person or building brittle political alliances. But it entailed something else as well—a family. It simply wasn’t something he could offer her.

Kasethen nodded, deep in thought. “It is indeed a conundrum, but I still believe you need to communicate your wishes to the lady.”

“You’re right,” the Vasaath sighed. “As always.”

They remained at the battlements for a little while longer, finishing their tea, before the Vasaath headed for the tent. Lady Juniper had risen and was having her tea. He was satisfied seeing her so comfortable there, as if she felt at home, but he also felt the tension that was still lingering from the argument they had had the night before.

“Good morning, sir,” she said when she noticed him there, and curtsied.

“ _Vahanan_ ,” said he and nodded. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.” She didn’t look at him, and it bothered him.

He gestured towards the opening. “It looks like it will be a beautiful day. Perhaps you could accompany me for a walk after you’ve had your tea?”

She looked down into her cup, and stood silent for a while, before she raised her eyes and looked at him. There was sadness in them, defeat. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

He nodded, but said nothing. It was a feeling quite rare for him, but he felt rather nervous. In his mind, he told her, plainly and simply, that he wanted her—and she told him she had been waiting for him to confess his desires. But he knew he could not be so blunt. No—he had to wrap his intentions in soft words and careful phrases, lest he would frighten her with his forward manners.

The waiting was excruciating. He had left the tent and could do nothing but pace until she appeared in the entrance. He stopped to gaze upon her; the sun made her silver eyes glisten; her black hair lay in a loose braid over her shoulder; her pale skin glowed golden in the sunlight, so bright even the bruises disappeared in the gleam. The vision made him strangely breathless, but he quickly gathered himself and nodded at her. “Why don’t we take a stroll along the beach?”

The girl was reserved, but nodded. She had her arms wrapped around herself and did not look at him as they walked towards the beach. The occupation of the harbour had yet to cause a cease of docking, so ships were still coming and going. Fewer humans moved through the docks, however, and the beach was as empty as it was serene.

They walked slowly side by side, both silent. The girl kept her arms wrapped around herself and kept her gaze on the water.

The Vasaath enjoyed her closeness, but he did not enjoy the adverse tension between them. He sighed and said, “I regret the way our discussion ended last night. I do apologise for losing my temper.”

She kept her eyes away, but said, “you have nothing to apologise for, my lord. It was improper of me to raise my voice to you. You were right, it was foolish of me to think you would abandon your quest. Please, forgive me.”

He snorted. “Don’t do that. Don’t undermine yourself. You did nothing wrong. We had an argument and didn’t see eye to eye, that is all.”

This made her turn her silver gaze to him. “So… you aren’t angry with me?”

“No.” He offered her his arm—as he knew men of the mainland did for women—and he waited patiently for her to take it. It was very proper, not invasive, and an honest gesture of peace. Slowly, the girl released the grip she had around herself and gently took his arm. Her hand was warm and soft, and her touch sent little bolts of lightning through his entire body, and he could not suppress a victorious smile. Slowly, they strolled along the beach, with the sea breeze from the north rolling over them like a soft caress, arm in arm.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Maasa –** _healer  
_ **Ohkasethen** – foreign teacher; wise foreigner


	17. The Open Cage: V

** V **

  
When she woke up that morning, she was devastated. When she had gone to bed, she was angry, but by morning, she was simply devastated. She had been so naive and so stupid as to believe she could do anything to stop the invasion and to build a diplomatic relationship with the Kas, and on top of that, she had lost her temper. She was certain that such insolence wouldn’t go unpunished.

When he had offered to take her for a walk that morning, she was terrified at first. It was uncharacteristic of him, and it frightened her. But she had accepted; it was a simple and innocent request and it would be insulting if she refused him. While having her tea, she thought about how to apologise to him in a way that would be pleasing to the Vasaath—it couldn’t be too emotional, nor could it be too arrogant. It had to be just right. One small mistake, and he might just throw her out, and then where would she go? But then he told her that he was not angry with her, that she had done no wrong. He had even offered her his arm, like a real gentleman.

She hesitated, but the second she placed her hand on his arm, her heart jolted. A stone lifted from her chest, and had she not held on to him, she would have floated away. Now, they just strolled along the beach. It was indeed strange, but knowing that he wasn’t cross with her—that he wouldn’t drive her away—was a relief greater than she could have anticipated. She found herself holding on to him a bit tighter than necessary, but he did not seem to notice. She kept stealing glances at him, but he kept his gaze straight ahead. The feelings she had for the general were feelings she had never before felt for any man. If he were to denounce her, it would mean, with undisputed certainty, that he did not hold any feelings but hatred and spite towards her. Now, however… would she dare to hope? Was it truly as impossible as she thought it would be?

“My lord,” she said carefully. “I am sorry to bother you with this question—and I might be foolish—but why do you still receive me as your guest when there is no longer an agreement? You have no obligation to protect me. In fact…” She swallowed and said, “it would be more logical for you to keep me as your prisoner than as your guest.” She knew she might be poking the lion once more, but her heart yearned to know.

A corner of his mouth curled upwards. “Why would you come back if you feared there was a risk I’d make you my prisoner?”

“I…” She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

He pulled his brows together and slowly came to a halt as he looked out over the ocean. He looked so regal, so majestic, in the sunlight. “What I said last night was unfair to you, but the question has itched my mind since you came back: why did you?” He looked at her, his golden eyes warm and full of sunshine. “You knew the agreement was over, you know that running to the enemy is seldom wise… so why did you return here?”

She knew not what to answer him. She couldn’t tell him about her nonsensical romantic dreams, so the closest truthful answer she could think of was, “I had nowhere else to go.”

He took quite a step closer, looked deep into her eyes, and asked, his voice strangely strained, “is that the only reason?”

No, she thought. No indeed. She looked at him, hoping that perhaps he could read her mind so that she wouldn’t have to say it. But he could not read minds, and she could not say it. In the end, she shook her head. “You’re not my enemy, and I… feel safe here, safer than with my father. He wanted to sell me, but you respect me.”

“I do.”

“Thank you.”

They stood looking at each other for a long while. Juniper could not will herself to look away from his golden gaze. They were close, but did not touch. In all the romantic fairytales she had heard in her youth, this was the moment the knight would kiss the princess—but this was not a fairytale, and he was not a knight. It was foolish of her to think there was anything between them, but she felt it. It was tangible in the silence. Was she mad?

After what seemed like a moment lost in time, the Vasaath nodded and gestured for her to continue along the beach. They spoke no more, and when they returned to the fort, the Vasaath made use of the fine weather and trained with his soldiers. Juniper observed with awe, and did notice that his movements were indeed perfect—beautiful. Powerful, precise, gracious… his size did not matter as he perfected each movement and seamlessly transitioned into another. He instructed the other warriors, some visibly older than himself, and they all listened and learned—but he listened to them as well, learning from them as much as they learned from him. It was as though they all had a mutual understanding, that even though the Vasaath was the general, some experience came with age. Indeed, Juniper didn’t know what they were saying to each other, but she could read their expressions fairly well. She could see the respect in the soldiers’ faces as well as in the Vasaath’s. She wondered if it was respect taught in their culture, or if it was respect taught amongst soldiers.

“I get exhausted just by looking at them.” Kasethen joined her with a great sigh. “Those weapons are heavier than they look.”

Juniper smiled. “So you have fought, yourself?”

“Me?” Kasethen sounded rather surprised. “No! The Vasaath wouldn’t let me anywhere near a battlefield.”

“Oh… it’s because he wants to protect you, I assume.”

Kasethen chuckled. “No, not at all. If it comes to it, I can defend myself. All Kas can. No, he wouldn’t let me anywhere near a battlefield because it isn’t enough to know how to fight—one must know how to defend one’s left.”

Juniper was intrigued. “One’s left?”

Kasethen nodded at the soldiers in training. “Every fool could learn how to swing a sword. That doesn’t make a soldier. To fight in an army is to fight in a chain. Everyone has their roles to play, even in war. One’s ‘left’ is the person to your left, and the one you are tasked to defend. That way, everyone has responsibility for the next. They fight in patterns. Look at the Vasaath now—he is teaching them a move called _the viper_ ; it’s a quick jab forwards, where the power behind it travels from the starting leg, through the torso, into the arm, and extends even beyond the tip of the sword. It’s a lethal move, but requires precision and focus. It leaves the soldier vulnerable to attacks from the side. To be able to perform such a move with the required confidence, you have to know someone will defend you if the enemy seizes the opportunity.” He reached his hand out to her and spread his fingers, moved them around, turned the hand a few times, and curled it into a fist before he opened it again. “An army is like a hand; the fingers are all separate parts, but together they create a tool that can make wonders. They never work against each other, or hinder one another, but moves like a single entity. It’s important to understand this synergy if you are a soldier.” He smiled. “I, on the other hand, would get both myself and everyone else killed.”

Juniper smiled. “I understand why your role is to share knowledge. It’s fascinating, hearing your philosophies on war and fighting. My father never allowed me to be curious about such matters.”

“Oh, I believe most armies share this philosophy,” said Kasethen. “As a war advisor, I have to. The biggest mistake would be to underestimate oneʼs enemies. If we go into battle believing we are better than our enemies, it does not inspire us to work harder, and leaves room for arrogance which often leads to lethal mistakes.” They were silent for a few moments before Kasethen spoke again. “The Vasaath knows this all too well. He was just a young _kasaath_ at that time, but his battalion was sent out to secure a piece of land on the Western Isles. The former Vasaath was a vain man—arrogant, headstrong. He underestimated the sheer will of the enemies—their ingenuity and creativity. We suffered a brutal defeat that day. Only a handful of soldiers survived. The Vasaath was one.”

Juniper looked at the large Kas training with his soldiers, and she felt a sudden sting of compassion in her heart. “How did he survive?”

“He has been a very formidable warrior all his life,” said Kasethen. “He survived because he fought well.”

“How did he come to be the Vasaath?” she asked.

Kasethen smiled. “You ought to ask him that, yourself.”

“Oh…” Juniper looked down on her lap.

The advisor sighed. “For every member of the Triumvirate, the appointment process is different. The Great Mother, the Vasmenaan, is chosen from a very young age. She serves alongside the current Vasmenaan and when the Vasmenaan leaves this life, legends has it that the soul of the Mother enters the new body, the Chosen One, and the new Mother arises. The leader of our philosophy, the Vasenon, is elected from a council of scholars and representatives once the former leader has left this life. Our war leader, the Vasaath, is appointed by trial. Anyone of our people, but mostly within the _saath_ , is allowed to challenge the leader and the Triumvirate decides whether or not the Vasaath can accept the challenge. If so, the two warriors fight to the death. If the Vasaath wins, he remains the leader. If the challenger wins, he is appointed as the new Vasaath.”

“So, the Vasaath is who he is because he defeated the old one?”

“He did,” said Kasethen, “and it was the fight of the century. He was quite young, you see. About your age. He wasn’t stronger or more proficient than the former Vasaath, but he was clever and strategic. He could keep his head cool, while the former leader could not. Again, he underestimated his opponent, and it finally became his downfall. The Vasaath has led our armies to victory for about a decade now. Not once has he lost a battle.”

Juniper had never seen the Vasaath truly fight, but she could very well imagine him being the greatest fighter the world had ever seen.

“Of course,” Kasethen continued, “ascending and becoming Vasaath meant he had to leave a lot of things we normally take for granted, behind. The burden is heavy, and the position is… well, lonely.”

“How is that?” She asked, but her heart tightened. Was he truly lonely? She knew that feeling all too well. “The superiors here get everything they could ever want—they aren’t denied anything.”

“The Vasaath has more restrictions than you could ever imagine, my lady,” said Kasethen. “There are things he is denied that others are not. Simple things, like indulgency, or revelry… or even love. But he is a man like any other, and so the burden weighs heavier with time.”

Juniper closed her hands together on her lap. How terribly sad, she thought. “That must be difficult for him.”

“Indeed,” said Kasethen. “And even if he wanted to break the rules, just once, not a single soul in our society would ever dare to indulge him. They respect him, the rules, and the traditions too much. You see, a member of the Triumvirate has his or her own court of advisors, teachers, healers… of everything. They are specially trained and educated to oblige the Triumvirate. It is improper for someone else of our people to tend to their needs, whatever they might be, and he would never ask it of anyone within the Kasenon.”

Her heartbeats quickened. “But he would break the rules, if someone was willing to indulge him?”

Kasethen seemed to ponder this. “I… would not know. No one has ever dared before.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, that would have to be someone outside the Kasenon, someone not bound by our laws and rules.”

Juniper hummed, but her heart was still beating frantically. Perhaps she wasn’t going mad—perhaps she had been right, feeling the tension. Perhaps he cared about her more intimately than he had let on… or she was just desperate.

When dinnertime arrived, Juniper was reading inside the Vasaath’s tent. Well, at least she tried. When the Vasaath had been done with his training and entered the tent, his magnificent build had been emphasised from the physical exercise, and Juniper had found it quite difficult to focus on the words on the page. When they had their supper, the silence between them was agony. He did not seem to mind it, but Juniper found the silence very uncomfortable. She tried to dull it down with wine, but the wine was strong, and she was not a very experienced drinker.

“Kasethen told me about how you became the Vasaath,” said she once her courage had risen, but her speech was already a bit blurred.

“Did he, now?” His voice wasn’t surprised, but curious. “And what did he say?”

“He said that you… challenged the last Vasaath, and won.”

He looked at her, and then, he smiled. It was faint, but it was indeed a smile. “I did win. I thought I wouldn’t, but I did.”

“Were you badly hurt?”

“Yes.” He rose to make himself some tea. He asked her if she wanted some, but she only raised her glass of wine with a content smile. He huffed, nodded, and returned to the table with a cup for himself. He sat down next to her and sighed. “He almost cut me in half, right here.” He showed her a deep scar that stretched over the right side of his abdomen and back. “When he buried his axe in me, I plunged my sword into his neck. I think he was aiming for my neck as well, but in the end, I was simply the better fighter.”

She looked at his scar in terror—it was dark against his grey skin, but it seemed strangely befitting. She had noticed it before, but she hadn’t thought of it as more remarkable than the next scar. Now, when she knew it was the reminder of the beast he defeated to become who he was, she saw it clearly. There was a sudden urge to touch it, but she refrained. She wondered how many other times he had been close to losing his life. She looked up at him. “Have you ever been challenged?”

“Of course,” said he and leaned on his elbow against the table. “I was young when I ascended, and there were many of my seniors who did not agree. I have fought many strong and brave warriors to secure my position.”

“Do they still challenge you?”

He leaned closer, just a little bit, and said, “no.”

“But one day, someone will?” She felt breathless, aching to lean a bit closer.

“Eventually,” said he. “That is the nature of being the Vasaath. One day, someone strong enough to defeat me will come along and take my place.”

“It sounds so… harsh,” she said, fighting the urge to eye his bulging arms. The wine had surely made her more comfortable, but she knew she would be most comfortable leaned against his rigorous build.

“Well, no one ever said being the Vasaath was easy.”

“No.” She thought about what Kasethen had told her, about the general’s loneliness, and she lowered her eyes. She was not of the Kasenon—she could indulge him, if only he would want her.

* * *

**Translation:**  
  
 **Saath** – _military; army; strength; protection_


	18. The Open Cage: VI

** VI **

  
He rarely spoke about his ascension, and he seldom needed to; everyone within the Kasenon knew the story, but of course she didn’t. He hadn’t thought about that devastating day for years. If there had been anyone the Vasaath had looked upon as what the humans would call a _father_ , it surely was his predecessor. The former leader had been a reckless man, yes, but he taught the Vasaath and all his brothers and sisters everything they knew. To be the one to end his life, was agonising—not to mention the fact he barely made it through alive. But it had to be done, for the good of the People. The man had turned vain and selfish. He was no longer fit to lead. It had been an honour fighting him, nonetheless. He lived with honour and died with glory. He died a warrior. Left to helm the title and bear the responsibility, was the new Vasaath.

He wondered if the girl would ever understand the horror he lived through the first few years of his reign. He was so young then, unprepared, and he had so much left to learn. Every other soldier defied him; they didn’t do it out in the open, that would have granted them death. No, they did it in the shadows, mocking him and making his life miserable, but they were clever enough not to make themselves known. As a young warrior, it had been very difficult keeping his head cool when all he wanted to do most days was to knock someone’s teeth out—or burst into tears. Eventually, of course, the challenges came. They all had the same appeal to the Triumvirate; the Vasaath was too young, not experienced enough, and posed a threat to the whole community. It was all very credible arguments, and neither the Vasmenaan nor the Vasenon could refuse them. During the first few years, he fought and killed thirteen of his brothers. As of this day, he remembered the dying breaths of each and every one of them.

He looked at the girl. Her eyes were lowered and her loose braid hung over one of her shoulders, like a curtain. He didn’t regret anything he had done during those first few years, but he was very happy she met him now when his leadership was firmly established, accepted, and revered. Perhaps it was pride, perhaps it was insecurities, but he was glad he did not meet her until now. He said, “I believe there are more… uplifting things to speak about than the brutal nature of my ascension.”

The corners of her mouth twisted. “Yes? What did you have in mind?”

He sighed. “I don’t know.” Then he knitted his brows together, pondering for a moment, before saying, “it’s not befitting for a noble lady in your culture to be without your own room, is it?”

She looked at him, bewildered—her eyes were hazed, sensual. “No, but perhaps it is in yours?”

At first, he didn’t know what to reply. Her eyes bewitched him. But then he pulled himself together, chuckled, and said, “we don’t have noble ladies. But, a person of importance would surely have a private tent. I will issue it tomorrow. Of course you should have your own tent with your own bed, your own desk, your own private washing area, your own privy, your own library…” He was running out of things to suggest, and finally just said, “anything you want!”

Her silver eyes were sparkling, still bewildered, still sensual—but he saw the gratefulness in them. “I don’t know what to say… or how to repay you for your kindness.”

“No, you don’t need to repay me,” said he. “It’s a simple decency for such an honoured guest, not a favour.” In that moment, he was sure he would do anything for that girl without ever wanting anything in return. “It will take a day or two, but it will be done.”

She shifted awkwardly, and suddenly, her soft hand lightly touched his arm. “I am very grateful, my lord, but I cannot let you do something like that. Sooner or later, I suppose I have to return to my fiancée.”

He tried to compose himself—it was only a hand, innocently resting on his arm. He had felt her touch before, but there was something about the atmosphere that evening; her scent, her eyes, her presence… he had to restrain himself from putting a strand of her hair behind her ear. But when he heard her words, he frowned. “Why? Do you want to?”

“No!” Her grip tightened, her countenance urgent— _fear._

With his jaw tightly clenched, he took her hand in his. “Then you won’t have to. You may stay here for as long as you’d like.” He wanted her to stay forever.

She looked at their hands, and the Vasaath could see her cheeks redden. She pulled her hair behind her ear, and her movements, however small they might have been, were enthralling.

He leaned in, just a little, wanting to inhale her wonderful scent, but straightened again. He couldn’t lose control, couldn’t impose himself upon her. He had to steel himself. “Lady Juniper,” he began, “there is something I must confess.”

She gazed up at him. “Yes, sir?”

Now was the perfect opportunity—surely, he didn’t imagine the effect he had on her, or the effect she had on him—but as she looked at him with her soulful eyes, he could not bring himself to tell her the truth. Her face was still bruised from the last man who thought he was entitled to her, so how could he justify his own desires, no matter how ardent they were? He sighed and shook his head. “I miss my own bed.”

The lady smiled. “I am sorry to drive you out of your own chambers.” Then she straightened her back and her smile turned elusive. “But a lady needs her privacy.” With a deep sigh, she rose on round feet. She swayed, lost balance, but the Vasaath was quick to reach out his arms and hold her steady. She giggled—a sound that sent strange and violent shivers down his spine—and she looked at him. “I’m so sorry! I must have had a bit too much wine…”

“Oh, but you’ve impressed me,” he chuckled. “You only need to find your balance.”

“Thank you,” she said, and then—much to his surprise, horror, and absolute delight—she leaned in to place a sweet kiss on his cheek. “Good night, my lord.” She walked away on unsteady legs, but made it all the way to the inner chamber without stumbling.

The Vasaath remained in his seat, frozen in place, unable to move. It was only a small gesture, and yet it was enough to cause complete disarray inside of him. He felt strangely lightheaded, and for the first time in a long time, he felt giddy, but also unassertive—what did it mean? The Kas rarely showed such endearment to one another, a kiss was a most intimate act exclusive to those nearest to heart, but he knew the sentiment was far more common with most humans. But why would she, a noble lady, kiss a general? Slowly, he touched his cheek where her soft lips had landed. His skin burned, as though her touch was still there, and it was driving him mad.

* * *


	19. The Open Cage: VII

** VII **

  
Sleep would not come easily to her that night. She wondered where her courage had come from and what she had been thinking when planting that kiss on his cheek. She did not regret her actions. If anything, she was proud she had dared to do something that bold. She was, however, worried that the Vasaath did not appreciate her sentiment, even if she wished that he did.

She kept glancing at the crimson canvas, half imagining and half wishing it would part and that he would come to her. In the fragile state between sleep and drunken consciences, she imagined him coming into the room and sitting on the side of the bed. She even thought she could feel the shift of the furs as he sat down. She looked at him, or so she thought, but his silhouette was dark. A steady hand fell upon the furs she had wrapped herself in, and soon, she felt his hand trail along the shape of her leg, slowly and intently, upwards—further, and further, and—

She opened her eyes wide, suddenly awake, sighing deeply. She was all alone in the darkness. Her head was spinning, but she felt the desire in her she had tried to suppress, but to no avail. It was unladylike, yes, but she could not deny it. The Vasaath stirred things within her she only thought existed in stories—lovers pining for each other with tragic ends. Love was a luxury rarely bestowed upon nobles; marriage was strategic, political. Even her mother had once told her to keep love a fantasy, to not have impossible expectations, so her heart wouldn’t be broken. Now, she had the grandest fantasy of them all, something she knew was impossible, and her heart was broken about it.

When she finally fell asleep, she slept like the dead. She woke up the next morning to the excruciating sound of hammering and chopping and every sound rang in her head by a thousandfold. Trying to keep her head from exploding, she buried herself underneath the furs and the pillows to drown out the noise. She did not want to leave the warmth and the comfort of the bed, nor did she want to go out and face the light of day. In her awakened state, no longer drunk and half asleep, she felt an incredible shame for what occurred the night before. How could she possibly look the Vasaath in the eyes ever again?

She must have fallen asleep again, because she was suddenly jolted awake by Kasethen’s soft voice as he said, “my lady, are you well?”

She stirred, turned in the bed, and looked at Kasethen who stood by the canvas. She had to narrow her eyes, for the light spilling in from behind him burned her immensely. Her head still hurt, every noise was still loud, but at least it was manageable. “Yes, Kasethen. I’m just… tired.” She sat up with great effort. “I might have had a bit too much to drink last evening.”

Kasethen nodded. “Ah, I see. I will let the Vasaath know you aren’t feeling well.”

“No,” she insisted. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Very well,” said the advisor. “The Vasaath has requested your presence. I will fetch you some herbs for your…” A ghost of a smirk flashed over his lips. “Condition.”

Juniper glared at him, and then nodded. “Thank you. And tell the Vasaath I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”

Kasethen bowed and left the room, and Juniper sighed deeply. She wanted to take a hot bath and put a warm towel on her head and soak until the day after. But she rose, put her dress over her shift and brushed her hair with her fingers. She tried her best to make herself presentable and put her hair in a braid and pinched her cheeks, but she was certain her hair was a mess and that her face was pale and dull. She felt reluctant to even leave the room, let alone meet the Vasaath. Why was he requesting her presence? Was he going to tell her that her behaviour last evening was unacceptable? It wasn’t something she needed him to tell her—she already knew it. Drunken foolishness was rarely an attractive trait. She knew, however, that she had to face him sooner or later. She sighed deeply and rose to meet her fate, but when she entered the main area, the Vasaath was not there. The hammering and banging noises were still present, and at this moment, when she was awake and alert, she followed the sounds to the outside. Next to the battlement overlooking the bay, Kas and _ohkasenon_ were all building a new tent. The Vasaath was supervising the project and once he spotted Juniper, he gestured her to join him. He did not look stern or vexed at all. In fact, he seemed rather uplifted.

“Good morning, my lady,” said he, but then he smirked, “or… good day, I suppose.”

Juniper looked down and tried to hide her embarrassment with a deep curtsy. “Good day, my lord.”

“I heard from Kasethen that you weren’t feeling very well,” said he. “Is there anything I can do?”

Juniper shook her head. “I thank you, but no. It is only a headache. I believe I had a bit too much to drink last evening.”

“Yes,” the Vasaath said amusedly. “I was very impressed you could walk at all.”

The embarrassment worsened, and she felt her stomach turn. “Please, forgive me,” she mumbled. “It shan’t happen again.”

“Nonsense,” said he. “You have nothing to apologise for. I know our wine is a bit strong for your kind; only a few of the _ohkasenon_ has mastered the drink.”

She smiled half-heartedly, but she could not bear to look at him. Her humiliation was too great.

“Tell me,” he then said, “why are you sad?”

“I’m not sad, my lord,” she said hurriedly. “Not at all. Just tired.”

“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me, Juniper.”

The way he said her name compelled her to look at him. It seemed to roll off his tongue so naturally and—dared she think it?—intimately. She swallowed. “It is not a lie, sir. I’m truly not sad. I am tired. But I am also…” She had to look away. “Well, greatly embarrassed.”

“And why is that?”

“It was improper of me to behave as I did last evening.” Her voice was small, and she wished the earth could just swallow her. “I should not have done what I did, and for that, I am ashamed.”

The Vasaath only chuckled—smugly, it seemed. “And what did you do that was so terrible?”

“Please, do not make me utter such impropriety!”

The general took a step closer and lowered his voice before saying, “my lady, you must think me a very cold man if you think I would be angry at you for showing such sentiment.”

His voice sent shivers down her spine, and she felt the knees buckle beneath her. She looked up at him, tried to give a witty retort, but no words could escape her.

She didn’t have to as he gestured towards the tent being built and said, “how do you like the placement? You will have sunlight throughout the day and the battlements hinder most of the wind from the sea. I believe it will be most comfortable for you.”

She looked at the construction in awe. “You’re building this, for me?”

“Well, of course,” said he. “I said I would.”

Yes, that was right. She barely remembered their conversation about it. “But… it’s so big. Surely, the whole thing can’t be meant for me?”

“Why? Would you like it smaller?”

“It’s not my place to have opinions on—”

He grunted. “If you want it smaller, I’ll make it smaller.”

“No!” She sighed. “Please, forgive me. I—this is a lovely gift, something I am rarely spoiled with.”

The Vasaath grinned—an expression most unusual for him. “You’re an honoured guest. I would not want you to think us uncivilised, or unwelcoming.”

She smiled back, thankful to her very core. She also realised, observing his grinning face, that the general had granted her more smiles during the few days since she had escaped the castle, than she had seen him smile for the entire two months she had known him. She wondered if he had noticed it too.

* * *

**Translation** :

**Ohkasenon** – foreign follower of the Kasenon; “follower of the faith of the people but not of the people”


	20. The Open Cage: VIII

** VIII **

  
A day’s work, and the lady’s tent was nearly finished. There were whispers amongst his men, of course—whispers that the lady was indeed eager to convert to the Kasenon. Otherwise, the Vasaath would never issue such a building, with the finest canvas. Her conversion was indeed what they all wished for, but the Vasaath himself had begun feeling slightly doubtful. He would not want her to convert before he’d had the chance of expressing his feelings to her. In fact, he wasn’t so sure anymore that he wanted her conversion at all. The alternative, however, was unthinkable.

No matter how deep his wishes were that she would become _vas-maasa_ , his experience and rationale said she would become _ohkasethen_. If so, she would be even farther from his grip than she was now. Indeed, he could appeal to the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon and vouch for her healing skills, tells them how important she was for his sanity, but they would never accept it. No _ohkasenon_ had ever been trained as _vas-maasa_ , and the other two members of the Triumvirate would surely never understand the Vasaath’s need for one.

During supper, he was sure the girl felt much better. She was chatty, but there was something different in the air. The tension was different—stronger. Was he going completely mad, or was she speaking softer? Was she playing with her hair more than usual? Was her gaze lingering longer than usual? Did she wet her lips unconsciously, or did she do it because she wanted him to notice it? He kept thinking about those soft, moist lips against his cheek, and he wondered how deliciously soft they would be against his own. He could barely focus on what she was saying, because all he could do was to imagine his lips on her skin.

That night, he did not receive the same token of endearment as the night before; the girl was being careful, and controlled, and he was childish enough to resent it. When she left him, he could not suppress the indecent thoughts that went through his mind, and when he went to sleep himself, he could definitely not control his dreams. He kissed her, over and over—tasted her, claimed her, revelled. Even after waking up, he indulged himself and kept the imagery of him kissing her sweet lips fresh in mind. It was peculiar—outlandish, even!—that he would desire such intimacy. Mating was one need, intrinsic to most beings; never before had he sought closeness, tenderness. It was a need most _human_ , and he did not like the vulnerability it brought.

To distract himself, he went through the invasion plans, again and again, that morning. He still had not heard from the _saath_ , and he was getting impatient. He still waited for the Duke to make his move as well—surely, the alliance had been put on hold until the safe return of the lady, but the Vasaath did not expect them to simply let her go. No, he expected them to most certainly try to convince the populace that the poor, beautiful Lady Juniper was held hostage by the terrible barbarians. Only their precious Builder knew what unspeakable horrors they put her through. As it were, it would be more advantageous if the lady herself pronounced her consent of being there. A highborn woman who would rather spend her days with a foreign general than with the son of a neighbouring city? What an insult that must be. He smirked at the thought. Yes, what an insult, indeed. And what if the lady were to pronounce that she’d rather spend her nights between the Vasaath’s furs than between the young lord’s sheets? Well, he was quite certain _that_ wouldn’t happen—but oh, what an insult that would be!

But now was not the time for silly dreams. If the Duke was gathering his City Guard, and the soldiers of Westbridge, the Vasaath had to be ready. His men were strong, disciplined, skilled—but they were outnumbered. Mainlanders would conscript any peasant with a pitchfork, so their skills were hardly the issue. To underestimate a fool’s wish to survive could however be a fatal mistake—and the Vasaath did not make mistakes.

He was deep in thought about strategy and warfare when the girl finally rose and entered the main room. He gazed up, and seeing her beautiful smile, he couldn’t help but smile himself. He greeted her, and she helped herself to some tea before taking a seat by the table. They spoke quite frivolously, and she was bold, audacious even, and she was indeed in a good mood.

Perhaps, he thought, her good mood would allow her to be helpful in his militaristic endeavours. Carefully, he asked, “my lady, what do you know of your father’s plans?” He looked at her. Indeed, his change of subject was very sudden, but the girl would surely hold no more loyalty to her father.

She was visibly taken aback. “Oh… I… not that much. I’ve already told you everything I know! I know there is an alliance.” She dropped her gaze. “But I suppose that is not particularly strong now when I’m… well, _here_. As I’ve said, I doubt they can solidify the alliance without me.”

The Vasaath only hummed. Yes, he already knew asking her was fruitless—but one thing she said helped him make a very quick conclusion: it was imperative for both Noxborough and Westbridge that Lady Juniper returned to them, and it would surely not be long until they came knocking on his door, demanding her back.

He kept thinking about a sufficient strategy for the rest of the day. He tried to overlook the building project, but his men were quick and thorough workers, and he had nothing to supervise, really. The tent was finished by nightfall, and many of the _ohkasenon_ had scoured the city after furniture, books, fabrics, and other trinkets to suit a lady. She was delighted, but the Vasaath felt a sting of sadness seeing her leave his tent—indeed, having her there had been torturous, and vexing at times, but he had enjoyed having her so close to him nonetheless. Giving her a tent, a space of her own, meant giving her freedom. She did deserve it—after all, the freedom was hers all along—but he wanted her to remain with him solely for selfish reasons.

When they had supper that evening, the girl was still in high spirits. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was even being coy. She moved flirtatiously, flung her hair about, moved closer, showed her bare neck to him… she did not make it easy for him to be disciplined. When she said good night, he thought he sensed that she didn’t what to leave either. But she did, eventually, and the emptiness she left behind was like a gaping abyss. The Vasaath had another glass of wine all by himself, pondering. Again, he tried to occupy his mind with other thoughts than her, but when he went to sleep that night, in his own bed, the sweet scent of her was overwhelming. He inhaled deeply, savouring the essence of her that was remaining in the furs, imagining that she was still there. One day, he thought, she would be.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Vas-maasa** – “healer of the leaders”  
 **Ohkasenon** – foreign follower of the Kasenon; “follower of the faith of the people but not of the people”  
 **Ohkasethen** – foreign teacher  
 **Saath** – _military; army; strength; protection_


	21. The Open Cage: IX

** IX **

  
The Vasaath had certainly not lied when he told her that he would build her a tent, and yet—even though it was finished, and she was inside it—she could scarcely believe it. The crimson canvas that surrounded her was familiar, but the interior was different from the general’s tent. Hers was indeed smaller, but it was still quite large. She had her own reading nook, with soft carpets and pillows and furs. A large brazier burned in the middle of the tent, and beside it stood a low table, with soft pillow seats around it; a tea-table was placed in one end of the tent, with a teapot, a cup, a small cauldron, and a wooden box she recognised from the Vasaath’s tent; a low, sparsely filled, bookcase stood firmly on the ground in the back, next to a writing desk. Behind it, fabrics separated the tent into two more rooms. In one, there was a dressing screen, and behind it stood a bathtub, a basin, and a perfume table. The details put into it all was rather sweet, she thought—surely, this was furnished for a lady of the mainland, and not a Kas woman. In the other, she found a bed. It was a real one, one that she was used to, and not a make-shift one as in the Vasaath’s tent. It was, however, made up with the same type of furs and pillows. It felt welcoming and comfortable—but she felt lonely. Lying in her bed, she missed knowing that the Vasaath was only a few feet away from her. She felt lonely, but strangely independent; more importantly, she felt as though she was home.

*

  
It was curious how things seemed to fall in place so easily during her stay in the Kas encampment. Juniper and the Vasaath had their routine, where she would spend her meals with him, her evenings, and then withdraw to her own. As the days went by, she tried to adapt to a new life; she helped where she could, lending a hand in cooking and mending armour, but he _ohkasenon_ seemed less inclined to accept her than the Kas themselves.

Kasethen was a loyal friend and an excellent conversationalist, keeping her intellectually stimulated and entertained. There was never a dull time with him—and for every evening spent with the Vasaath, her feelings for the grey man grew. He was a very serious man, indeed, but he had moments of endearing doubt, silliness, and laughter, sides she reckoned he rarely displayed to others. She felt serene, content, and in some ways, the days spent in that fort were some of the happiest days of her life.

One morning when waking up, she decided to indulge herself in a hot bath. She rose, put on her frock, and entered the main area. Her own main area. She lit the brazier, brought in some water from a barrel outside, and filled the small cauldron. While bringing it to a boil, she examined the wooden box on the tea-table. It was the same box that had been at the Vasaath’s table, filled with herbs, spices and dried tea leaves; her heart flared at the sweet sentiment—she knew how much he liked his tea. When the water came to a boil, she poured some of it into the teapot, before pouring the rest into the tub. She sighed deeply; she would need to heat at least eight or ten cauldrons to have enough for a warm bath, so all she could do was to fill it again and set it to boil.

The spicy scent from the tea she had come to love during her time spent with the Kas spread through the room like a perfume. She allowed herself to savour it for a few moments—the silence, the scent, she serenity. It was as though everything was still. She knew not how late it was, nor if she was expected somewhere, but at that moment, she did not care. She enjoyed her tea in stillness, listening to the soft crackling of the fire in the brazier, as she waited for the next cauldron to boil.

It must have been the smoke escaping the hole in the roof that called for attention, for not five minutes after she had had her first sip, the canvas flaps opened and Kasethen entered with a bow.

“Good morning, my lady,” said he. “I trust you slept well?”

“Indeed,” said she. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

He smiled. “Thank you, but I have just had mine. I only came to give you this.” He reached out his arm, and only then did she see the extensive fabric that hung from it: deep crimson satin, stitched in intricate, fishbone patterns. He took the fabric in his hands and revealed a beautiful dress. “One of the _ohkasenon_ is a seamstress. It is made in a traditional Kas fashion. I thought it might suit you.”

Juniper rose to inspect the gown. Although the fabric was lithe, it was very sturdy. The way the pieces were woven and stitched together reminded her of scales, or armour, and yet it was elegant and feminine. The shoulders were encased by black leather pieces, making it even more robust. Indeed, this was not the dress of any human culture, but clearly that of a warrior one. “It’s beautiful. I can’t accept such a gift!”

“Nonsense,” said Kasethen. “It is yours.” He sighed. “The Vasaath has no eye for fashion, I can tell you that, but this will most certainly please him.”

She huffed. “Last I wore fancy clothing, he blamed me for being spoiled.”

Kasethen laughed. “Yes, it sounds just like him. Not to worry, my lady—you are no longer the enemy. If he gives you unfair criticism, you may tell him that it was I who clothed you.”

She snickered and hung the gown over her arm. There was some weight to it, but it was not as heavy as it looked. “Thank you, Kasethen. You are very kind.”

He smiled wholeheartedly. “I hope it will fit you. The seamstress is certain of it, and she has never been wrong before.”

“I can’t thank you enough!”

“There is no need,” Kasethen assured. “I know you are not part of our culture, or abide by our philosophy, but…” He creased his forehead. “I have come to regard you as someone dear to me despite that.”

It was heartwarming, and it was most likely the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

“I’ll leave you to your own now,” said he and nodded. “Are you expecting company?” He gestured at the boiling cauldron, and Juniper smiled, shook her head, and said that she was trying to fill her bathtub. To this, Kasethen only sighed and said, “I will see to it that it gets filled.”

She tried to tell him that she could manage it herself, but he had left before she could insist. Juniper placed the dress on her bed and inspected it more thoroughly. She had never seen such artistry before—surely enough, the gowns worn by ladies in the High Court of Illyria were most certainly works of art, but the nobles of the Free Cities would never be able to afford such luxury. This gown was certainly not that lavish, nor was it as delicate as she knew the ladies of the Court wanted their apparel to be. This was, however, befitting for the Kas. It was lovely, and she would wear it proudly.

About half an hour later, several Kas guards came into her tent, all carrying cauldrons of warm water. She felt ridiculous, like a nuisance, and pleaded for their forgiveness—they were not her servants! They said very little but did not seem annoyed. They were gone as quickly as they came, and the bathtub was lined with cloth and filled with water that was neither too hot nor too cold. Juniper was uncertain for a moment—what would those guards whisper about her? That she was spoiled? That she was treated differently? Surely, she thought, she had done all she could to make herself useful, but it was moments like this one that made her feel utterly useless.

Trying to shrug off any concerns, she scoured the small perfume table and found some essence of lavender and honeysuckle. She put some drops into the water and let the sweet scent fill the tent. Soon after, she sank into the tub and her muscles relaxed in the warmth. Calmness came upon her as she lay there, all soaked. Leaning her head against the edge, she let her eyelids close as she disappeared for a while from the world around her. She hummed to herself, a sweet tune she remembered from her mother. She hummed it while she washed her body and her hair, while she rose from the water, and while she let the water rinse away her sorrows; she hummed it while she dried herself with a linen cloth, and while she clothed herself in her shift. On the perfume table, she found a wooden comb the used to untangle her hair before she braided it. She put the gown on carefully, letting the fabric glide onto her body. It fitted mostly perfectly, and the parts that did not could be corrected with leather lacing on the sides. She felt regal, important, and she wished she had a looking-glass or a silver plate to so she could see the dress in its entirety. This, she thought, would most definitely please the Vasaath—and even if it didn’t, is surely pleased her. Seldom had she felt this proud and powerful, and it felt as though she grew at least two inches.

Then, she suddenly heard shouting and screaming coming from the gates, and her heart stopped.

* * *


	22. The Open Cage: X

** X **

  
He had waited for her all morning, but she had not come to him. Why was she keeping him waiting? She came to him every morning, so what was keeping her from him now? She went to bed early the night before, wasn’t intoxicated, and had done nothing exhausting during the day—so naturally, she couldnʼt possibly be sleeping still. He knew not why it vexed him so, why he was so anxious to see her, but he wanted her near and when she did not come, his temper was slowly slipping. Impatiently, he went to fetch her, only to find her common room empty. Was she still sleeping, after all? But then, he felt the sweet scent of lavender and honeysuckle, and heard the faint but captivating humming of a woman. She was having a bath. His heart leapt at the realisation, that behind those curtains and behind that wooden screen, her naked form was soaked in water. He felt his breath quicken, his thoughts darken. His patience was running thin, self-control edging on the brink. He took a step closer. Would she resist him if he came to her? Would she deny him his innermost wishes? He took another step, urgent now. Would she deny _him_ , the Vasaath, such a need if he slipped his hand into the water? But then, he heard her sigh contently.

He stopped dead in his tracks, aghast by his own thoughts. How could he even think such unworthy thoughts as to invade her privacy in such a manner? How could he even imagine exercising his power is such a dishonourable way? Distraught, he left the tent again and marched towards the battlements. He had to calm himself, and gather his thoughts. His heart hammered in a way he wasn’t used to; he felt anger rise within, anger that was targeted at nothing—and thus useless. He clenched his fists and released, again and again. His jaw was set tight, and his eyes rested on the horizon. One day not too late, red sails would be on that horizon, and things would make sense again.

He had calmed down by the time the ruckus began outside their gates. He heard the shouting and the screaming, and he strode across the courtyard to find out what was going on. He demanded the guards to tell him, but none could give a clear answer.

“They are storming us, sir!” said a _kasaath_.

The Vasaath wasted no time. He barked at him men to arm themselves and be at the ready, and his men responded like a well-trained body. They stood at the gates, their swords, pikes, and shields at hand, but the Vasaath then heard the distinct crying of women, and children, as voices pleaded to spare their lives. He ordered his soldiers to stand down, and then he listened.

“ _Let us in_!”

“ _They will kill us_!”

“ _Please, save us_!”

And that was when the wind changed. He felt the stinging reek of fire and smoke, and at the rooftops in the town, he could see flames lick the buildings as black smoke rose to the skies. It wasn’t that far from the harbour, but it was a long stretch from the comfort of Fairgarden—it was the paupers’ houses that burned. The Vasaath sighed. “Open the gates.”

His men did not question him, and opened the gates to let the mass of humans well into their midst. It was mostly women and children, and their faces were blackened by soot and dirt. Some were even scorched and burned. Some were badly injured and bleeding. He couldn’t possibly count them all, but he knew it was closer to twenty—perhaps thirty—humans falling in through the gates.

“What has happened here?” he demanded to the group. “Why are you at our doorstep?”

An elderly man approached on trembling legs. “Please, sir,” he said, tears streaming down his weathered face. “Give us refuge! The City Guard has burned our houses in the search for the Duke’s daughter, and now they are coming after us!”

The Vasaath glared at the man. “And what am I to do about it?”

“Please, my lord,” sobbed the man. “The guards will have us killed! We are declared as enemies of the Duke for harbouring his daughter, Lady Juniper, but we are innocent! We haven’t seen her! Please, my lord, we—”

“ _Bas_!” He was in no mood for such troubles this day. Darkly, he asked, “have you come to submit?”

“Submit? We only seek refuge!” said the man and fell to his knees. “Please, just give us refuge!”

The Vasaath looked down his nose at the kneeling man. How pathetic, he thought. There was no wish to learn the philosophy, no wish to change their lives and their perspectives—only to seek protection. His tone was final as he said, “no.”

The man looked up at the general, and the Vasaath could see defeat in his eyes, Death. The women wept at the general’s answer, and several of them collapsed. Surely, he could feel for these people, but he was under no obligation to grant them protection. Neither would he benefit from it. He was benevolent and generous, but he could not save every soul in Noxborough, and especially not those who did not wish to convert. With a sigh, he motioned his guards to see the people out, but just as the soldiers grabbed hold of the humans, several of them cried out, over and over again, “my lady! Save us! They said we were hiding you! They burned our homes! Please, my lady!”

“Stop!”

He turned at the sound of her voice, and the vision that was before him took his breath away—there, running over the courtyard, was the fair Lady Juniper, dressed in the colour of blood, just like a true woman of the Kas. Her dark locks were bound in an intricate braid that coiled over her shoulder, and loose strands were falling in her face. She looked majestic, beautiful, breathtaking.

When she reached them, she quickly helped the man to his feet. “Please, let these people be!”

“They have no business here,” said the Vasaath, but he was surprised by the anger that radiated through the steel gaze that met him.

“These people are hurt,” she spat. “They came to you for help. How _dare_ you turn them away?”

He stared at her, mortified. How dared he? What did she mean by that? How dared _she_? This was his domain, governed by his rules. How dared she speak to him in such manner? Fury seared through him, red and hot like wildfire in high summer. His vision blackened. His voice boomed, perhaps a bit angrier than he’d anticipated, as he growled, “do not disrespect me, _ohkas_!”

She recoiled, fear flashing in her face, and he had not realised that he had grabbed her arm in a fiercely tight grip until she tried to pry herself free from him. He released her at once, surprised by his own actions, and she only glared back while still holing a protective arm around the old man’s shoulders. “These people are Kamani, nomads.” Her voice was trembling, but determined. “They have always been harassed by the Dukes of the Free Cities, always made scapegoats.” She straightened and looked him dead in the eye. “They have come to you for protection, because of me. If you refuse them, you refuse me as well.”

The fury was still hot in him, still edging his line of sight, pulsating with his bursting heartbeats—but he felt ice in his heart. No, he could never refuse her. He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw tightly, and said, “very well. But these people are your responsibility now, Lady Juniper. Not mine. They will be under your protection. Not mine.” He took a step towards her. “You will feed them, clothe them, house them… if they are in my way, they will submit or they will die.” Another step. “Is that understood?”

“Yes.” She was determined. It was just as infuriating as it was intriguing.

He stood for a moment, seeing her defiant gaze, before he straightened and took a step back. He didn’t exactly give her his approval, but neither did he forbid her to do what she felt was right. He couldn’t rob her of her agency—but he did not like her defiance. With a sigh, he motioned his guards to release the humans.

The girl then broke their gaze and gave her attention to her people. “Come. You’re safe here, I promise you.”

“Oh, my lady!” several of the humans exclaimed and hunched humbly as they approached her, some to kiss her feet.

The Vasaath could see primal fear in the eyes of the children—to them, his people were demons, with yellow eyes and sharp teeth, just as humans were demons to Kas children, with greedy appetite and murderous intent. He wondered how safe these people would feel, knowing that only a woman stood between them and the enemy. The poor and injured people were led deeper into the camp, and he followed them with his gaze until Kasethen cleared his throat next to him.

“My lord,” said he.

“Send the _kaseraad_ ,” said the Vasaath. “I want to know what the Duke is planning.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kasethen and bowed before giving orders around to the soldiers who all dispersed. “And what about those people?”

He huffed in frustration and lowered his voice. “Keep an eye on them. Lady Juniper has taken on more than she can carry. Help her.”

The advisor nodded. “And what about the injured ones? Should I fetch a _maasa_?”

The Vasaath grunted. “Only if needed.”

Kasethen nodded, but hesitated. “My lord, with all due respect—considering your… _disposition_ regarding the girl, don’t you think it would be better received if _you_ offered her your help?”

The Vasaath had to consider this. Indeed, such chivalry was expected and coveted amongst humans, but he didn’t find it appropriate. He had already said his judgment, quite harshly, and what authority would he be if he gave way to her rebellion? “No,” he said. “It would not be fitting for me, as the Vasaath, to change my mind. I let her people in, and that was to win her favour, yes—but I will not sink any lower, no matter how desperate my needs become.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Kasethen and bowed again. “If I could give you some words of advice, it would be to be wary not to let a situation like this breed resentment. That would indeed drive you further from your goals.”

He sighed, letting his shoulders slump, and said, “I know.”

* * *

**Translation:**

**Bas** – _enough_ ; _stop_ ; no more  
 **Kaseraad** – _spies_ ; “the shadow of the people”  
 **Maasa** – _healer_  
 **Ohkas** – _stranger_ ; “not of Kas”; “not of the people”


	23. The Open Cage: XI

** XI **

  
She thanked the Builder her tent was big enough to house those poor people. They were frightened, tired, and injured. The children were crying, their poor little faces covered by soot. She made sure they had water to drink, that the children at least had food to eat, and she let them wash and warm themselves. She tried not to think about the Vasaath’s hard words—she knew she would have to deal with him sooner or later.

She was told that the guards were turning the city on its head to find her, and the Kamani people were always the first ones to be suspected. Several had been killed already; Juniper suspected that the guards didn’t care whether they were truly guilty or not. She assured them that they were safe within the encampment—she was quite convinced that the Vasaath and his soldiers would not harm them, but she felt uncertainty rise within the more she thought about his threats. Perhaps he wouldn’t hurt them, but what if he turned them away?

She helped with what she could, comforting the children and tending to the wounds, and once the people seemed calm and content, she excused herself and left. She felt nauseous—panicked, almost. Those poor people had lost family because of her. She kept from crying, but only because she willed the cries back down her throat. She looked around. The camp had gone back to normal, it seemed, despite the desperate people housed inside the newest construction on the grounds. She sighed—it was time to face the general and his judgment.

He was in his tent. He didn’t acknowledge her as she entered, but she could feel the thick bitterness hanging in the air. She cleared her throat and said, “they have calmed now. They were tired, frightened, and grieving.”

He was silently scribbling away at a piece of paper by his desk, but a twitch in his face revealed that he had at least heard her.

She sighed. “They will need food, and blankets for the cold.”

“Then provide,” was all he said.

Juniper felt sudden vexation shoot out through her fingers. “How can you be so cold?”

Slowly, he looked up. His expression was unfazed, unimpressed. “I told you, did I not? It is your responsibility, not mine.”

“But I cannot order anyone to do anything!” she exclaimed and flung her arms out. “I can’t issue food, or clothes!”

“No, you cannot.” He straightened, locking his eyes onto hers. “It’s because you are not in charge here, I am.”

“Then please!” She advanced towards him, feeling frustratingly helpless. She knew there was no point in arguing with the man—and she didn’t want to argue—but she cursed his bullheadedness! “Help me help them!”

“Why?” He furrowed his brows before slowly rising from his seat and walking around the desk.

She was used to his height, but now, she felt even smaller in comparison. “These people need us. They need you. _I_ need you!” And there is was, the truth she had hidden for such a long time. Yes, she did need him; she needed his protection, his calmness, his presence. She _needed_ his approval, his acceptance—and now, she needed his help. “I have promised to protect them, but I have no means.” Gently, she reached to touch him. “I’m guilt-ridden, heartbroken.” Her hand softly touched the skin on his arm, and she felt blood rush to her head, making her quite dizzy. “The first time we met, you told me that I relished in the rift between my people, remember?” she continued, walking closer still. It was as though she was compelled to. The grey man stood firmly in place. “How can you expect me to mend that fault of mine if I am not given the opportunity?” They stood close now—so close. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears; she felt the heat radiating from his body. Slowly, she let her hand trace upwards, and his muscles rippled underneath his skin, like jolting spasms reacting to her touch. She was mesmerised by him, by the feel of his flesh against hers. She was shocked by the sensation that filled her, the desire that grew strong. She wanted him to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her, but he seemed unresponsive to her advances. She searched his eyes, but he did not meet her gaze.

She only saw his jaw twitch before he muttered lowly, “Kasethen will aid you. Do not bother me with it again.”

It was as though she had been dipped through a hole in the ice, straight into the freezing water, and she pulled back. She felt the heat in her face, and she curtsied deeply. “Thank you, my lord. I am very grateful.” She rose with her head bowed, careful not to let him see the tears that were flooding her eyes. Everything she had felt, everything she had thought he felt too, was wrong. Heartbroken and embarrassed, she turned. Suddenly, she felt him gently clasp his hand around her arm. There was nothing she could do but to look at him, cursing the tears that rolled down her cheeks. His countenance was different now—soft, and troubled.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, his voice gentle. “Before, I mean.”

She shook her head and quickly dried her tears with the back of her free hand. “No.”

“I didn’t mean to grab you,” he continued. “I don’t know what came over me. I am sorry.”

Despite his soft words and his tender touch, she was confused. Just a short moment before, he had rejected her with intent—she was sure of it. Now, his eyes were drawing her in, joining with her soul. Again, she shook her head. “Do not think of it, my lord. I am unharmed.” In truth, she had been upset up to even feel how painful his grip had been, but as it came to mind, her arm felt somewhat tender.

He, however, did not seem content with her answer. “Please, say you forgive me, Juniper. I would not want you frightened of me—I’d much rather have you angry with me.”

She sighed, forced a smile upon her lips, and said, “I forgive you.”

“No.” He yanked her closer, gently but decisively. “Either you truly forgive me, or you don’t. No lies.” They were standing awfully close to each other, her hands resting on his chest. His breath was hot on her face as he looked down on her. His other hand locked around her other arm, and if she wasn’t mistaken, his breath was heavy. He lowered his head, just a little, and said, his voice rough, “are you afraid?”

She wet her lips, blinked slowly, and felt her heart hammer violently against her ribs. “No.” It was barely a sound at all, but it was all she could muster. No, indeed, she wasn’t afraid—she was nervous, anxious, and confused, but not afraid. She reached up, just an inch or so, waiting for his lips to come down upon hers. “And I do forgive you.” She thought she felt him lean in, she thought she felt him reach for her as well, but despite their lips hovering close to each other—so close!—they never met.

Instead, he sighed and gently pressed his forehead against hers. “Good.”

She pressed herself closer, and without thinking about it, she let her head fall to his chest. She feared he would push her away, but after a deep sigh was released from his depths, he wrapped his arms around her and relaxed. She was still bewildered but savoured this rare intimacy. He held her tightly, his arms enveloping her entire form. She breathed in his scent, drew from the heat of his skin, and revelled.

They stood, tightly embraced, for a few more moments before Juniper slowly pulled away. She was reluctant to do so, but she did not wish to give herself any more false hope. She didn’t know what such intimacy meant to the Kas, and she couldn’t be certain that it meant the same to him as it did to her. If it indeed did not, she would not want to live through such heartache. As soon as they were separated, she felt coldness surround her.

The Vasaath then muttered, “where have you put them?”

“In my tent,” said she. “It was the only place I could offer them.”

He snorted. “So, you’ve had it for what, a fortnight?”

“Does that anger you?”

“It’s yours. You do with it as you wish.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

She saw him clench his jaw before he returned to his desk. “As I said, you do with it as you wish. Whether it angers me or not, is irrelevant.”

Of course it angered him—she could hear it in his voice. He was childish not to admit it, but she was glad he didn’t hinder her. The freedom and agency she had been given, could easily be taken from her. Now that she had lent his generous gift to the newcomers, he might look at her with disapproval. She did not want that. Carefully, with the softest voice she could muster, she said, “I am very grateful you allowed them amnesty, sir. If you allow me to find someplace else to shelter them tomorrow, perhaps down by the beach, I would get my tent back.”

“Very well,” he muttered. “But you’ll sleep here tonight. I don’t trust them, and I won’t have you sleeping amongst them.” He looked up, his brows furrowed. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

Her heart jolted, leapt with joy, but she tried to compose herself as she said, “no, sir, not at all! I’ll return to the Kamani for a while, and then I’ll be back by supper.” When he only replied with a hum, she decided to leave at last. She had to still her heart, calm herself, and let out the violent and nervous giggles that were rising within her like a tidal wave.

* * *


	24. The Open Cage: XII

** XII **

  
The girl was certainly trying his patience that day. He could have had her, right there, right then; he could have torn that gown off her back and claimed her. Indeed, deep inside, he had been tempted enough. Her lips had been parted, her eyes had been hazy… if he wasn’t going mad, he would say that she was waiting for him to kiss her, but he dared not. In his current state of mind, he couldn’t trust himself. It pained him to know such despicable thoughts plagued his mind, and the cruelty he put her through in front of his soldiers and the nomads was enough to make him doubt his self-control. So naturally, he wouldn’t be able to trust himself with a kiss. But when she leaned into him, when her soft hair touched his chest, he knew he could never hurt her—he would rather die. When she pulled away from him, he felt the agonising cold around him. Tonight, he thought victoriously, he would have her with him again, even if it meant another night out on the rugs.

He couldn’t, however, suppress the fact that more than twenty humans were housed in the tent he had built for _her_. It was partly his own fault, of course—had he not agreed, this situation would never have existed. Then again, had he refused, he might have lost her forever. He wondered, however, what he was to do with those _Kamani_. He had seen in that old man’s eyes, that he had no intention of abiding by the Kasenon. When he asked the Kamani if they had come to submit, all the man had said was that they wanted refuge. They had turned to him, not because of the life he represented, but because they shared a common enemy. Such desperation. It sickened him. He was not without empathy—he understood the struggles those people must have gone through, and he had accepted many wretched humans before—but he was not desperate. Lady Juniper did not understand that. Because the guards had been looking for her, she felt an obligation to protect them. Her misery was not an obligation, it was not her responsibility to save people from her torments, but how could he convince her of that when she seemed so sure?

He waited patiently for her to return that evening. He went through plans of defence with Kasethen in case of an attack, and he made sure to overlook their resources to make sure they had all that they needed, but it was all dull pastimes. Then, at last, she came in time for supper. She seemed exhausted, and she said that she had had to sing to the children for the entire afternoon. He wanted to ask her to sing to him, but he could not bear putting such strain on her tired form. He could only imagine it was beautiful.

He could barely keep his eyes off her that evening. She had let her hair down from the braid, and her black locks had fallen over her shoulders and scented the air with lavender and honeysuckle. Her silver eyes glittered in the firelight, and her smile made his heart skip every other beat. He thought about her hands against his skin, about her head resting against his chest, about her parted lips… his longing was getting unbearable. When she spoke, his eyes were drawn to her lips, the curve of her neck, her pale collarbones, the soft shadow of her cleavage…

“Do you think it’s a bad idea?” he suddenly heard her say. He looked up, saw her cautions gaze, and then she mumbled, defeated, “of course you do. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“Suggested what?”

Her cheeks flushed and her eyes widened. “I… didn’t you…”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was… lost in thoughts.”

“Oh.” She looked down on the table. “Well, it’s was nothing. It was just a silly thought, you wouldn’t want to hear it, I’m sure.”

“I want to hear it.” He gazed at her, sought her eyes, focused now. He would hear her; he would listen.

Her cheeks flushed even more as she said, “well, I… I said that it would be tragic if you were forced to sleep out on the rugs again tonight, now when you’ve finally had your bedchamber back.”

He sighed. “You are not sleeping out here.”

“No…” Her whole face was red now, and he wondered—what _had_ she suggested? “I was thinking, that since the bed is rather big, and I don’t take up that much space, there would be room for… well, both of us.”

He was surprised. Intrigued, exuberated—and genuinely perplexed. “Very well,” he said, trying to contain the childish giddiness that exploded in him.

But his acceptance caused the girl to tense up. “What?”

He nodded. “Very well. You’re perfectly right.”

She stared at him, speechless.

Fearing she might have regretted her suggestion, he said, “out on travels, we oftentimes share beds, no matter disposition, or sex. Sometimes, during the deepest winters, we have to if we want to survive.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “That seems reasonable.”

He clenched his jaw, trying to still his raging heart, cursing himself for his mindless ramble. “I would not wish to make you uncomfortable, Juniper.”

She smiled, but it was a nervous smile. “No, no. I just didn’t think you’d accept my suggestion. It… may not be decent.”

He frowned. “I would rather think it’s indecent in _your_ culture. In mine, we have greater things to worry about than who shares beds with whom.”

“Yes, of course.” She shot down her gaze, and the Vasaath wondered why the girl had even suggested it if it frightened her so. He was glad she did, but he was confused.

“We don’t have to decide such a thing just yet,” said he. “I have slept on worse than pristine rugs.”

The girl was embarrassed, he knew that, but she smiled, and slowly by slowly, their conversation continued. He tried to concentrate, tried to keep his eyes from wandering, but it was difficult; her wine-stained lips looked too delicious. The prospect of sharing his bed with her was almost overwhelming, and he began to worry. What if he couldnʼt control himself?

They stayed up quite late, both seemingly too nervous to suggest sleep. It didn’t feel like him to be hesitant, to fear the closeness of a woman, but this was new to him. Indeed, he had slept next to women before—for comfort and warmth—but never next to someone he cared for as deeply he did for Lady Juniper. Sooner or later, they had to sleep—and he’d be damned if he had to move two giant leaps backwards and sleep on the rugs now when he had the chance to be close to her, even if that only meant a slight touch or just the heat of her body next to his. So he suggested it, as cautiously as he could, that they should perhaps let the day go in the wait for the next. She agreed, but the tension was thick—he knew, as he knew she did too, that this was more than just a pragmatic solution. This was a statement, from both of them.

She was shy as she stripped down to her shift, and climbed into bed and under the furs without looking at him. He sighed and started undoing the straps and knots that held his vambraces in place. He had a rack for his armour, and each piece he removed from his body was carefully positioned in its rightful place on the rack. Finally, all he had left on his body was his breeches, and he left those on—he wouldn’t want to frighten the girl! He carefully slipped beneath the furs, and he could hear the tiniest of gasps escape the girl. Her cheeks were flushed, but she was smiling, albeit nervously.

“So,” she said, voice thin, “we should try to sleep, then.”

“Yes,” said he and made himself comfortable. Indeed, he wasn’t as nervous as he thought he would be. In a way, it felt right. He felt calm. He placed a hand behind his head and exhaled deeply—yes, this was a thousand times better than those wretched rugs.

She dared to slide down further and fell naturally into the groove made by his body. Carefully, she turned to her side, her back against him, as she made herself comfortable.

The Vasaath looked at her small frame, saw how her chest rose and fell quite rapidly, and wondered if either of them was going to be able to sleep at all.

“You may hold me, if you’d like,” she said, much to his surprise, but he did not make her wait. Slowly, and carefully, he turned to his side and placed an arm over her. His hand hovered over her abdomen for a short moment, hesitating, before he settled it there. He felt her stir in his embrace as she shifted and burrowed herself into the furs and pillows. He took it as an invite to pull her closer, and as her full body was pressed against his, her curves firmly hugged against him, he felt the desire surge through him again. He pushed it back, with intent, decided not to ruin such a precious moment by growing stiff against her.

He felt like a young boy again, struggling to control himself in the presence of a beautiful woman, but he was the Vasaath. He was Control. Indeed, this was a new situation for him; when in bed with women, he would usually want to show his need and interest, as well as his prowess, but this girl was no _maasa_. This was no healing session. He certainly wanted her to know that he would be a good mate to her, that he could satisfy and please her, but this was not the time. He would have to take care, not rush things; not put pressure on her, not be imposing. Her breathing slowed as she seemed to relax, and that calmed him as well. He carefully began caressing her with the thumb that rested on the edge of her ribs, and he let his face sink further into the pillow, closer to her hair. The scent was almost overwhelming, and certainly addictive. He wanted to caress it, feel the silk between his fingers, but he refrained. She had not asked him to, had not allowed him to.

Dismal thoughts suddenly clouded his mind as he wondered how many times someone had touched her without her consent. That was common in these lands, he knew—women were commodities, not people. Had she, perhaps, been wrongfully touched by that young lord? He was to be her husband, after all. Perhaps that was enough. The mere thought of that whelp touching the girl was sickening—infuriating. She wouldn’t have lain with him by her own volition, not in a thousand years, he was sure of it, and the thought of him forcing himself upon her made the Vasaath absolutely mad with fury. Such an intelligent and thoughtful person she was, and how horribly she had been treated.

He pulled her tighter to him, took a deep whiff of her hair, and knew she was there by her own free will—by her own suggestion, no less. She had chosen _him_.

* * *


	25. The Open Cage: XIII

** XIII **

  
She tried to relax, tried to settle in, but it was difficult when her heart kept hammering against her chest. His arm was heavy around her, and his hand that rested on her belly was so big, she was sure her entire waist could nearly fit between his thumb and his index finger. Terrible shivers traversed her body as he caressed her, and she could feel his breath in her hair. She was happy, ecstatic even, that he put his arm around her—she only wished her heart would slow down so that she could enjoy it. It had slowed some—indeed, she thought it would burst right out of her chest when she undressed—but it was still banging violently against her ribs. Surely, he felt it, too. She had never before been so close to a man, let alone someone like the Vasaath. She felt his warm and firm body against her back, and the more she thought about the shape of him, she deeper she blushed. It was a curious feeling, but not a bad one. In fact, it was the best feeling she had had in a long time.

But it was impossible for her to sleep. She bit her lip, searching for something to say. “How can you tell each other apart if you carry no names?”

He sighed heavily. “I thought we agreed that we should sleep.”

“Yes,” said she, “but I’m not tired.”

Again, he sighed. “We do not keep names, no, but we have… well, nicknames.”

“What?” Snickering, she turned her head to look over her shoulder. She couldn’t see him in the dark, but she felt his breath against her face. “You never told me that.”

“It depends on who it is,” he said. “A person of high rank would never have a nickname. Amongst soldiers, however, one must have one. Theyʼre all _kasaath_.”

“What was your nickname? Before, I mean?”

“Sleep now, Juniper.”

“Is it a secret?”

“No, it’s just irrelevant.”

She bit her lip again and turned back to lay down. “So, it was something embarrassing, then.”

He sighed yet again, deeper this time, louder. “No, it was a regular nickname, like any other. Now I am called the Vasaath, nothing else.”

“Was it a nickname you had been given as a child?” She knew she shouldn’t press it, but she was incurably curious. “Like _Scrapper_ , or _Bisty_?”

“Juniper, it’s not—”

“Or perhaps it had something to do with something you’ve done! We all embarrass ourselves, somehow. Were you clumsy? Or shy?” She giggled. “Perhaps you were the runt of the litter? It could have been—”

“It was _Nightrunner_ ,” he muttered. “My nickname was Nightrunner.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t quite as exciting as she’d anticipated. “Why?”

“Because I spent the nights training,” he said against her ear. His dark voice resonated within her, and made her feel all sorts of wonderful ways. “I wanted to be the best and the strongest soldier I could possibly be.”

“So you never slept?”

“I adapted,” said he. “And my hard work paid off. Now, I don’t have to train after nightfall—I can sleep, if you’d let me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and a yawn suddenly escaped her. Sleep was indeed needed. “Good night… Nightrunner.”

He tugged her even closer, trapping her effectively against him, and growled into her ear—playfully—“youʼd better not utter that name again, my lady. I am the Vasaath. Is that understood?”

The corners of her mouth twitched, and she gently grabbed his big hand that rested on her torso, intertwining her fingers with his. “If you wish.” Hearing the general’s grunting response made her suppress a swift chuckle.

There was no more conversation between them that night. She had trouble falling asleep, she was simply too excited, but the tiredness won in the end. She woke up as she had fallen asleep: tightly nestled in his arms. She shifted slightly, stretching her feet and toes while yawning. She didn’t remember the last time she had felt this rested, or slept this well. The Vasaath was sleeping soundly next to her, and she slowly turned in his embrace to look at him in the faint morning light that seeped in through the thick canvas. His face was serene, peaceful, and she was surprised by how non-menacing he looked while asleep. It was captivating, and magical. Carefully, she let her fingers trace his lips and the shape of his strong jaw. He was a beautiful creature, powerful and majestic, one she didn’t even dare to dream about before she had met him. Without thinking, she carefully brushed her lips against his, only lightly, wishfully, barely touching them. She imagined them soft and warm, and she wished they would claim hers. Quickly, she pulled away, her cheeks burning—how inconsiderate of her! And how unladylike of her! Panic rose within, and she wished he would not wake and taste her lips on his—how offended he would be! But he did not wake. She stared at him for a few moments, waiting for him to stir, before she relaxed and gently touched her lip, breathless and giddy. She sighed, looked at him for a moment more, before placing her head in the space between his chin and his chest, and let his steady breaths lull her back to sleep.

She woke again when he moved, and she sighed deeply as she felt him shift. She moved with him, not wanting to part from his heat. His hand, now resting on her back, started to slowly caress her, and his fingers gently went through the tips of her hair, causing violent shivers all across her body. She pressed herself closer to him. “Is it morning already?”

“Yes.” His throat vibrated deeply, and she could hear that he was drowsy. “Unfortunately.”

“We could stay here the whole day,” she suggested.

He hummed approvingly. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” Then he sighed. “Alas, we have work to do, obligations to fulfil.” He sighed and stirred again. Slowly, he parted from her, and sat up by the edge of the bed.

She watched him keenly; his shoulders were slumped down, his elbows were resting on his knees, and his head was bowed. When he straightened and stretched, the muscles in his back and shoulders moved majestically under his skin. He yawned, sighed, and rose. She kept watching him, remembering the feel of his chest against her. He was meticulous as he armoured himself, and it fascinated her. Despite the savagery she had heard of as a child, this man had proven to be sophisticated, fiercely intelligent, tender, and sweet—and he was truly a gentleman. Although she had desired him to kiss her, and touch her, she was glad he had not. It proved her father wrong. It proved that he was better than Lord Christopher. It proved that he cared about her and respected her.

When he was fully armoured, he turned his attention to her. “Will you join me for tea?”

Juniper stretched again. “Yes, I’d love to.”

“Very well,” he nodded and left the chamber.

She yawned again, sprawling across the bed, and allowed herself to smile from ear to ear. She was fully aware that this wasn’t the domestic bliss she might have dreamt of as a little girl, but after this night, how could anyone deny the tension between them?

* * *


	26. The Open Cage: XIV

** XIV **

  
The Vasaath regarded himself as a rational being. In even the most challenging situations, he was known to keep his head cool and remain focused on the task at hand. Now, his task was clearer than it had ever been before, and he could not find any rational reason why it shouldn’t be—he wanted Lady Juniper to be his, in every way possible, even if that meant that the only intimacy he would have with her was sleeping next to her. Never before had he slept as peacefully as he had that night. Just before he woke up, he dreamed that his lips touched hers. It had been a vivid dream, it had felt so real, and the only comfort he had when waking up was seeing her lying there next to him. She must have turned in her sleep, and her small frame was resting against his chest as he woke up, her breath tickling his chest. He hadn’t been able to resist touching her hair, not when it was in such close reach of his fingers. It was like silk, luscious and soft, and he had to fight the urge to grab a fistful of it. When she had stirred, she hadn’t moved away from him, she hadn’t objected to his touch, and when she suggested they stay in bed all day, he was indeed tempted to do so.

It was unlike anything he had ever experienced—not even his _vas-maasas_ could bring him such joy and calmness of mind as she could just lying close to him. Of course, neither did they bring him such torments.

When she joined him by the table, she was smiling. “It sounds like the rest of the camp has already wakened,” she said and gently blew on her tea.

“I suppose they have,” said the Vasaath. “It’s long past sunrise.”

“How long did we sleep,” she asked, suddenly worried.

“Well, we stayed up long past midnight, so it isn’t surprising that—”

“I need to go to the Kamani,” she rambled and hurried to stand. “Forgive me, sir.” She curtsied and hurried out of the tent.

The Vasaath stopped, frozen, and he furrowed his brow as he watched her rush out. He had almost forgotten about the Kamani people. He exhaled deeply when he was all alone, and all his troubles came back to weight him down.

Kasethen entered only a few minutes later, bowed deeply, and joined the Vasaath by the table. “Finally, you’ve risen. I have heard from _rasaath_ , Great Warrior, about the advantage points around the docks.”

The Vasaath placed down his cup. “And?”

“If we expand further east, we’ll cut off any possible flanking possibilities, and they will have to face us head-on.” Kasethen poured himself a cup of tea. “If they come, my lord.”

“They will.”

“If so, I believe it’s time we take control of the harbour. According to the _kaseraad_ , the Duke expects a full shipment of produce from Illyria, and we will drain our food supply if we keep expanding like this.”

The Vasaath looked at his advisor, surprised. “Well… welcome back, Kasethen. Finally, you advise me to advance.”

Kasethen sighed deeply. “My lord, the longer we stay here, cooped up in this camp, the more restless the men will become. Smaller food rations will make them short-tempered. It doesn’t matter if this is the _Saathenaan_ —sooner or later, they will lash out.”

The Vasaath sighed. “You are right, Kasethen. It is time we expand. How many new disciples?”

“We have about fifty humans ready to receive the _enon_. I don’t know about the Kamani.”

“Neither do I. I sense… indifference in them. I don’t like that.”

“But you have allowed them to stay here,” said Kasethen. “They came to you, did they not?”

The Vasaath sneered. “They came because they were running from something else.”

Kasethen raised his brow. “Weren’t they all?” He sighed. “When we take this city, we will have many converters who are _indifferent_. More will be _unwilling_. They will submit because otherwise, they will die.”

“They will be ruled by fear,” said the Vasaath. “At least in the beginning. They will obey. Indifference makes people rebellious, unruly.”

“So why did you let them stay?”

“Because Lady Juniper begged me to. Her disappointment would have been too great had I turned them away.”

Kasethen nodded. “I see. And what will Lady Juniper say when you kill them?”

The Vasaath glared darkly at his advisor. Indeed, he knew there were only two alternatives—submit or die. The girl would hardly look at him the same way again if he killed the people she had sworn to protect. He huffed. “They will learn, eventually. Lady Juniper herself knows that submitting is their only chance of survival.”

“Are you certain of that, sir?”

He sighed. No, he was not. If anything, he believed the girl held on to futile hope. “She will learn, as well. She’s an intelligent woman, I have confidence in her.”

“Yes,” said Kasethen, “she is intelligent. But that doesn’t mean she will fall in line. There’s a chance it’s quite the opposite, I’m afraid. What will you do if that happens? If she refuses the Kasenon?”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw and sighed. “That will not happen.”

“I hope you are right.”

“She and I shared my bed last night,” said the Vasaath. “A bond has been formed.”

Kasethen raised a brow. “Well… and was it… as you anticipated?”

“We haven’t been intimate,” the Vasaath muttered. “We slept next to each other, nothing else.”

“Ah.” The advisor seemed even more surprised. “I must say, sir, that I am impressed. You have always been a disciplined man, indeed, but you’ve never really been known for your graciousness when being denied something you’ve wanted.”

“She hasn’t denied me,” said the Vasaath matter-of-factly. “And after last night, I’ve grown more confident that she won’t. I firmly believe I am earning her devotion.”

Kasethen, however, looked rather troubled. “My lord,” he said after long consideration, “is it possible that you have grown… fond of the girl? That you have… well, strong feelings for her? Do you think it might be possible—” He shifted in his seat and furrowed his brows. “—that you are… devoting yourself to _her_ , sir?”

The Vasaath slammed his cup onto the table, flustered. “How dare you?” he growled. “The girl has captured my fancy, yes, but I am merely interested in her satisfying my needs.”

“And what are those needs, exactly?” Kasethen was still calm, unfazed by the Vasaath’s sudden outburst. “Only physical? Or are they emotional?”

The Vasaath was bewildered. Romance was preposterous—a waste of time and energy. How could Kasethen even think such thoughts? And even more so—how could the man gaze straight into his soul? “Watch your tongue very carefully, my friend.”

“I mean you no disrespect, sir. I am merely entertaining the thought that you might be confusing the needs of the flesh with the needs of the heart.”

“And you don’t think I could tell the difference?” He felt his body tense, his chest hot with rage—and fear.

“Could you?” Kasethen challenged.

The Vasaath and Kasethen glared at each other, one furious and the other calm. The Vasaath huffed and relaxed, just a little. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

Kasethen sighed deeply. “My lord, we have known one another all our lives. And during all those years, have you ever felt for anyone the way you feel about Lady Juniper? Have you ever _cared_ about anyone the way you care about her?”

The Vasaath had to divert his gaze. He didn’t know. He cared about his sisters and brothers, he cared about Kasethen, he cared about the Great Mother… but it simply wasn’t the same. He remembered the sudden rage surging through him when Lord Christopher spoke to her the way he did, when he raised his hand at her; he remembered the overpowering need to protect her when he saw her bruised face, and the overwhelming need to touch her whenever he was near her.

Kasethen sighed again and lowered his voice to a calm, soothing song. “I know the pain and the fear you carry in your heart, my friend, if it is as I suspect it is. You know I do. I had to let go, but I have never forgotten the feeling.”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw and looked at his friend. “I thought you said you never wanted to talk about him again.”

Kasethen smiled. “It was a long time ago. It was a fate I couldn’t change, but it still hurts.”

“He fought valiantly, if that is any comfort.”

“Yes, he would have been a glorious _kasaath_.” Then he, despite it being a rather unusual expression on his face, clenched his jaw tightly. “But he wasn’t ready, or _willing_ , to receive the Kasenon. I didn’t do enough to convince him. _I_ wasn’t enough to convince him.”

“He was a warrior, Kasethen,” said the Vasaath. “I don’t think you could have done anything to convince him.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Kasethen. “But I was young, and afraid. Had it been today, I would have acted very differently. I would never have tried to cage him. I would have released him and told him to run, even if that would be treason.”

“You wouldn’t have done that.”

“Yes, I would.” Kasethen’s eyes turned cold. “I loved him, I still love him, and seeing him die was the hardest thing I have ever done, and I would trade anything to see him again.”

The Vasaath furrowed his brows. “Even your life?”

“Especially my life.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kasethen.”

The advisor sighed and leaned over the table. “My lord, answer me this: if Lady Juniper was to deny the Kasenon, would you truly have the strength required to end her life, or would you rather set her free?”

“This… thought experiment is fruitless,” muttered the Vasaath. “She will accept.”

“And if she indeed does,” Kasenon continued, “and if she is _maasa_ , you know as well as I that she won’t be _vas-maasa_. No _ohkasenon_ is. Are you then ready to share her?”

“A person can’t be owned, so a person can’t be shared,” the Vasaath muttered.

“That is true in thought, but is it true in feeling?”

The Vasaath grunted disapprovingly. “She won’t be _maasa_ either way. She will be _ohkasethen_.”

“She will be out of your reach either way,” said Kasethen. “How does that make you feel?”

“Enough about this, Kasethen,” the Vasaath warned.

“Just because you’re a part of the Triumvirate doesn’t mean—”

“Kasethen.”

“—that you can change the rules simply because—”

“I won’t tell you again.”

“—you wish to have—”

“ _Enough_!” His roar was thunderous. “Why do you persist?”

“You are a novice in matters of the heart, my lord,” Kasethen said, still calm. “You have bent over backwards to accommodate the girl—had your needs only been those of the flesh, you would have had her already.”

“I will not rush her!”

“That girl is already in your complete mercy!” At this point, even Kasethen was getting agitated. “If you didn’t care for her as deeply as you do, you would have seen that as clearly as I.” He sighed. “I see the change in you, sir. I have rarely seen you as furious as when you saw her assaulted face. You hold her when she is in pain, you build her a tent, you go against your own judgment and let her people stay simply because you fear her disappointment… and you lay down with her, only to sleep. That is not motivated by sexual desire, my lord—that is a clear testimony of affection and deeper care. I’m sure of it.” Then he sighed. “If I’m wrong, which I know I’m not, you must tell her that you do not care for her as she cares for you.”

The Vasaath snorted, but he could not deny the truth that spilt out of Kasethen’s mouth like poison. His sigh was as deep as his despair as he said, “what am I to do, then? How can I possibly confess all these… _feelings_ to her? I’m doomed if I do, and I’m doomed if I don’t.”

It was a gentle hand that landed on his as his dear friend looked him in the eye and said, “have courage, _venaas_. Whether that means to let her go or to follow your heart, you have to act now while you still have time. Once she’s converted, it will be too late.”

* * *

**Translation:**

**Enon** – _faith; philosophy; knowledge; truth_  
 **Kasaath** – _warrior_ ; “strength of the people”  
 **Kaseraad** – _spies_ ; “the shadow of the people”  
 **Maasa** – _healer_  
 **Ohkasenon** – foreign follower of the Kasenon; “follower of the faith of the people but not of the people”  
 **Ohkasethen** – foreign teacher  
 **Rasaath** – _officer_ ; dutiful soldier; true soldier  
 **Saathenaan** – elite warriors; “deepest strength”  
 **Vas-maasa** – “healer of the leaders”  
 **Venaas** – _friend_


	27. The Open Cage: XV

** XV **

  
“The whole city is laughing at you!” Richmond shouted at his guards, but they all kept their gazes forwards. “Every fucking Free City is laughing at you! No, they’re laughing at _me_ for ever trusting incompetent _idiots_ like you!” He had to breathe for a short moment before he bellowed, “it’s one little girl, and you can’t even find one _trace_ of her?” The Duke feared to admit it, but the situation was getting rather dire. Lord Cornwall and his son were furious about Juniper’s escape, and threatened to withdraw their promise to aid against the invaders, but Richmond tried to convince them that she had not escaped, but had been abducted. His obedient daughter, he said, would never run from an obligation this important.

Lord Cornwall was inclined to believe it, but his son was more reluctant to do so. He said he believed her capable of such treason; she was a vicious creature, a vixen—pretty enough to be his wife and bed warmer, but he would not hesitate to flog her. Richmond didn’t disagree. In fact, he told the young little shit that he believed flogging was the only way to control them, womenfolk. But, Juniper was meek and shy. She would be a good wife, and her good breeding and upbringing had made her dutiful and obedient. Of course, as her father, he knew that wasn’t strictly true. She was sweet-natured, indeed, but could be a difficult woman with foul mood swings and irrational thoughts and hysteria—she had definitely escaped on her own accord. But as long as Lord Cornwall believed that she was a compliant girl and that she had been abducted by one scoundrel or another, he might still support them in their endeavours to drive the Grey Ones away.

To prove such a thing, however, he would have to find his daughter first. The town sweep had thus far been fruitless—not even the Kamani, the only ones stupid enough to house a High Noblewoman on the run, had her. How the girl could have eluded the City Guard so easily, had been beyond him at first. Now he knew they were all idiots.

“Milord,” said the captain, Wiltbourne. “There is one place we have yet to search.”

The Duke prayed to the Builder that he would not say—

“The harbour, milord. She could’ve been taken by the Grey Ones.”

Richmond sighed heavily, his teeth gritted. “And how do you suppose they would have infiltrated my castle?”

“We’ve heard news, milord, that riffraff from the lower districts are joining them. It could’ve been a kitchen wench, or a stable boy.”

“So now I have traitors in my midst?” Richmond spat. “Brilliant!” He paced the hall, his anger almost too great to bear. Then, as he felt like he was about to explode, he strode up to the captain and bellowed, “ _find my daughter_!” He took a step back, still furious. “Pressure the beasts if you must. Just _find_ her!”

“But milord,” said Wiltbourne, “the Grey Ones have made it clear that anyone who steps into their territory will be attacked.”

“ _Their_ territory?” the Duke hissed. “This is _my_ fucking city! Do what you must, but bring her back!”

“Yes, milord.”

The Duke watched the guards leave, but he had very little confidence that they would succeed. Instead, he called for Garret and ordered him to gather the City Guard and prepare for a negotiation. If Juniper indeed had been so foolish as to run to the enemy, it could be used to his advantage. A damsel in distress was always a good motivation for pious fools.

* * *


	28. The Open Cage: XVI

** XVI **

  
The Kamani had recovered some from the trauma, but there was still sorrow. Juniper had done all she could, comforting, reassuring, and feeding the people. The children started to become restless—their parents would not let them leave the tent, and eight small children in such a confined space were wearing on them all. Juniper could scarcely think straight during supper that evening—her ears were still ringing from child cries and screams.

It was a comfort, however, enjoying the silence with the Vasaath. He didn’t demand her to speak and wasn’t keeping unnecessary conversation. She could relax and recover. When it was time for bed, neither of them said a word about sleeping arrangements. Perhaps it was wrong of her to assume their agreement would last, but she hoped she would be invited to his chamber nonetheless. She was. It was quite strange how they both found their comforts much quicker than the night before. She didn’t have to tell him that he could hold her, and he didn’t ask her. Instead, his arm fell comfortably over her and he pulled her close. Her heart went rampant, of course, and yet, she felt a strange calmness. She let her fingers lace with his and pulled his hand closer to her heart. His fingertips almost reached to the bottom curves of her bosom, and even though she had the urge to lead his hand further, she dared not. He did not move it, either—not further or back. She caressed the top of his hand carefully, feeling the muscles, the tendons, the knuckles, and the skin at her fingertips. She didn’t know when she fell asleep, but the morning after, she awoke tightly nestled against his chest.

He was already awake, and his golden gaze caressed her face. “Good morning, my lady. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Juniper sighed deeply and closed her eyes again. If she could spend the rest of her life with mornings like this one, she would be content. Very content, indeed.

“The sun is rising,” said he and gently moved a strand of hair from her face and placed it behind her ear, a motion that caused terrible tremors in her body. “A new day awaits us.”

“Can’t it wait, just a little longer?” she murmured, and his chest vibrated as he chuckled.

To her great delight, he seemed to settle in. “Very well.” His frame was so warm and inviting, she felt as though she was wrapped in a warm blanket as he tightened his arm around her.

She inhaled his scent of tea, spices, and leather—still, without his armour. Reluctantly, yet intrigued, she opened her eyes, just a little, and let her gaze wander over the general’s bare chest. As the light shone through the crimson canvas, a reddish hue was laid upon everything. The ink on his skin seemed alive as he breathed, and she simply couldn’t help herself. She let her fingers slowly trace the ink, and she murmured, “what do they mean?”

“They are warrior markings,” said he. “For every great feat, a marking is added.”

“But there are so many of them!”

He chuckled softly. “My lady, I did not become the leader of the Kas’s mighty military by doing nothing.”

“No,” she mumbled, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Of course.”

“I received my first when I was appointed _kasaath_ ,” said he, seemingly unfazed by her naivety. “It was a great honour.”

“Does every soldier get one?”

“No,” he said. “I had shown remarkable bravery for my age, and I was rewarded for it.”

She hummed. “Where I come from, men are rewarded with golden medals, titles, land, and sometimes even wives, if they have accomplished marvellous feats.”

“All of which can be taken away,” said the Vasaath. “Put a marking on a person’s skin, and it will always be there as a reminder.”

“Like scars,” she mumbled and let her fingers carefully trace over one of his.

“Yes,” he said. “Just like scars.”

In that very moment, Juniper felt smaller than she had ever felt before. There was nothing on her that could tell a story—no marking, no scar. There was no feat she had accomplished, no bravery to be rewarded for. She was completely blank. _Bland_. She didn’t even have a scar from her childhood years; no scraped knees, no pox scar, no cat scratches. If she had any markings at all, they were long faded. She had bruises, of course, but bruises faded; enough time, and the memory of whatever had caused it would simply disappear from her body, as if it was never even there. No, she had been sheltered from it all, just so that she could grow up a perfect doll for her husband to mark best he wished—then, the only story her skin would tell, wouldn’t even be hers. The mark of her father’s ring would perhaps linger, but it would tell an awfully sad story.

In an attempt to swallow the bitterness, she shifted and said, “I think it is time we rise. The Kamani will need their breakfast.”

The Vasaath growled lowly, reluctant to move. “I never thought a few simple words could ruin this morning.”

Juniper sighed as she sat up and moved her feet from underneath the warm furs to the cold floor. “I know you don’t like them, sir, but they are my responsibility and I will not let them starve.”

“No,” he muttered. “By all means, go to them.” He was visibly sullen as he rose from the bed to put his armour on.

Despite it being rather childish, Juniper found his turn of mood somewhat endearing. She smiled and said, “I never saw you as a man prone to jealousy.”

He snorted, but did not reply.

“Are you too morose to even converse with me now?”

“No,” said he while strapping on his shoulder pads. “I simply don’t like to speak nonsense.”

She giggled as she carefully dressed herself in her lovely crimson gown, her back turned towards him. “Nonsense can do you good sometimes. Could you please help with my laces? They are so difficult in the back.” She knew it was a bold request, one that definitely wouldn’t be appropriate in any other situation—but she had been in his arms in nothing but her shift, so clothing etiquette was certainly not a scandalous subject anymore. She gently moved her hair from her neck, and waited.

He seemed to hesitate, but soon enough, she felt his presence behind her as he tugged at the leather laces in the back. “How tight do you want them?”

“Tight enough,” said she and braced herself. He tugged, and even though she tried to ready herself, she was still flung back like a ragdoll, causing her to gasp and to giggle. He only grunted. He had been quite modest, Juniper could tell. She nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead, tighten them more.”

“I don’t wish to hurt you,” he muttered.

“The dress is fitted,” said she. “You’ll know when it’s right. Just... pull gently.”

He sighed in frustration and pulled again. The leather had formed itself after her previous wear, and soon enough, the laces fell into place. He fastened the knot and sighed again. “I’m sorry for my rough hands—I’m not used to the delicacy of female attire.”

His comment made her cheeks flush, and she quickly said, “thank you.” She moved on to her hair, praying to the Builder that the general wouldn’t demand her gaze.

He did not. When he was done with his armour, he left the bedchamber, leaving Juniper to her hairdressing. She exhaled deeply, feeling the relief wash over her like a spring shower. She was getting reckless, indecent. She was not a married woman, nor was she a harlot. She had no excuses to be informal—with a leader, no less! She would have to be more careful, more thoughtful, in the future.

* * *


	29. The Open Cage: XVII

** XVII **

  
It pained him to see her leave after they had had their tea that morning. Kasethen was right. The feelings the Vasaath had for the girl was unprecedented—no matter how dangerous they were. He felt calm being close to her, lying next to her, and although he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, he found it easy enough to converse with the girl. She had a way of drawing him out, into the light. Perhaps they didn’t always speak about things he liked to speak about—he distinctly remembered having to utter his ridiculous boyhood moniker—but at least, they spoke, with passion and dynamics. She argued with him in ways no one else dared to; she mocked him, sweetly, also in ways no one else dared to, and her voice was often sympathetic and understanding.

No Kas woman would ever marvel at his markings, let alone ask about them; they were all well aware of why he had them, and that was all. No one would ever touch them like she did, with such reverence. In Kas culture, once the markings were healed, they were part of the wielder, part of the soul. She, on the other hand, treated them like artwork, or words on a page—as something orchestrated for display and wonder. She was an oddity in his world, a rare and exotic bird trapped in the cage that was this bigoted world of men and sovereigns. As _ohkasenon_ , she would be free from such shackles. She would have a purpose that was beyond her sex, beyond a tradition of oppression and weak character—her purpose would be her own, from within herself.

But as much as he wanted to set her free, he wanted her for himself. Kasethen was right in that, as well—a person belonged to no one, but he wanted her to belong to him. She would, however, be out of his reach no matter what role she was appointed within the Kas. It would simply be impossible. Love for a particular person was not for the Vasaath. His love was for his soldiers, his people—not one particular woman. Especially not an _ohkas_. He had no love left for an _ohkas_ —or, he _shouldn’t_ have any love left for such a woman. But then there was this exotic bird of paradise, just within his reach, soon ready to spread its wings and fly far away from the cage he had opened if he didn’t close it again. But how could he do such a thing?

He tried to keep his thoughts away from the ache he felt within and decided to put his mind into more pressing matters, such as the expansion of their territory. The harbour in Noxborough was quite large; they couldn’t possibly build lasting walls around the harbour in a day. As he stood on the battlements, overlooking the layout of Winter Harbour, the _kaseraad_ came back from their assignment. They approached him, their faces serious and urgent.

“What news?” he asked.

One of the spies took a step forwards. “They are planning an attack, sir. They are gathering their army and preparing to march this way.”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw. So it had finally come to this, then. He nodded. “How many?”

“We saw no sign of the Westbridge forces, sir,” said another spy. “The City Guard house at least a thousand soldiers. They think they outnumber us ten to one, but they think we’re fewer than we are.”

“How long?”

“We left as soon as we heard they had issued the orders. With preparation and marching, they must be about two or three hours away.”

The Vasaath nodded and barked for his officers. “Gather the men. We have to secure the harbour, and quickly.”

“Yes, sir! What about the _ohkas_ in the harbour, sir?”

“Drive them out,” said the Vasaath.

“If they refuse, or cause trouble?”

The Vasaath sighed heavily, clenching his jaw tighter. He was tired of compromises, tired of playing games. He looked his officers in the eyes and said, “then, you kill them.”

The _rasaath_ nodded and left to gather the _Saathenaan_. The Vasaath needed not to make sure the task was done—it was his best soldiers, after all. But he would lead the defence, as any good leader would.

It didn’t take long until Kasethen had learnt to know what orders the Vasaath had issued, and was quite surprised. “My lord,” he said once he had found the general. “Are you sure this is the right time?”

“We have an army marching towards us,” said the Vasaath. “We’re outnumbered. Perhaps we do have some advantage, seeing as they’ve underestimated our numbers, but they have a thousand men, and we are but two hundred. We need the advantage of facing them head-on. If we let ourselves be surrounded, we might as well lay down our weapons.”

“But, my lord, we still won’t have anywhere to run if they overwhelm us.”

“We do not run, Kasethen. We need the harbour so they can’t besiege us. If we control the harbour, we control the seas.”

Kasethen knew the words to be true, and nodded. “Well then, I suppose we can’t prolong it any further.”

“No,” muttered the Vasaath. “We shouldn’t have given them time to prepare at all. But I suppose this will be proof of their worth, their bravery. If they stand against us and win, they deserve their victory.”

The advisor narrowed his eyes. “But you don’t expect them to?”

“I am prepared for a fight. It would be foolish of me not to be. But I’m going to win, or I am going to die. I’m ready for it. Are they?” The Vasaath huffed. “That is my question. Will they cower in the face of death, or will they stand tall? That is what separates the wheat from the chaff.”

“You’re right, sir,” Kasethen sighed. “What will you have me do?”

“Keep Lady Juniper away from it,” muttered the Vasaath. “I don’t want her near danger.”

“Or have her see us attack her people?” Kasethen muttered.

The Vasaath glared at his advisor. “Yes. That, too.”

“She will see through it, sir.”

“And I will deal with her later. Just make sure she doesn’t do anything… hasty.”

Kasethen nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The Vasaath wasted no time and turned on his heel to join the preparations. The _Saathenaan_ was always ready for battle, but they had been waiting for more than two moons; their armours needed treating, and their blades needed sharpening. Moreover, they needed to secure the harbour before the Duke’s men surrounded them. The operation was, however, swift and successful—the mainlanders ran in sheer panic when the armed Kas warriors advanced. There was no resistance. Make-shift barricades were soon in place, and even though they would need more work before the harbour would be truly fortified, it had to be enough to hold it for now.

When echoes of drums sounded over the rooftops and cobbled streets, the Vasaath ordered his men to gather. They all lined up in the courtyard, and the general ascended the battlements. He took a deep breath, revelling in the dooming moment of silence as the marching of a thousand men came nearer. He then let his words boom over his soldiers. “Finally, it has arrived. Do you hear it, the boots of our enemies marching? Do you hear their drums beating? War, is coming. We know it as an old enemy, and as an old friend, and we will embrace it as such. Look at your brothers. We fight not for ourselves, but for them. We fight not for our present, but for our future. We fight not because we wish to fight, but because we must fight. To do our duty to our Motherland, we must _fight_!” A sounding war cry boomed from his two hundred soldiers, loud enough to roll far over the hills and the waves, as they slammed the butts of their spears into the stone floor with a deafening clap. When the echo had faded, the Vasaath said, “to bring honour to our people, we must _fight_!” Another war cry, another clap. “We shall cleanse these lands from corruption and bring them order, once and for all!”

“ _Vas-an lit basran_!” The voices sounded in unison—a great calling that rolled like thunder.

The Vasaath looked out over his men. Two hundred of his best soldiers were an awe-striking sight to behold. He knew they could strike fear into the hearts of even the biggest of armies, and yet, he felt the guilt upon his shoulders. He would demand a great feat from them, defeating one thousand men on the battlefield. Some of them would most likely not make it out alive. He knew, however, that the humans would underestimate them. No mainland warlord in their right mind would ever enter into a battle with such bad odds, but a Kas soldier was trained for worse. They were warriors, and they would fight with the strength of ten men until their dying breaths.

As the marching drums beat louder, the _Saathenaan_ took formation along the barricades. The Vasaath had his shield and his spear at the ready, with swords at both his hips. The swordsmen and spearmen formed double lines of black-clad warriors along the barricades, and archers stood at the ready in the back and on the battlements. When the enemy approached, drummers and bannermen carrying the Osprey sigil fronted the army, followed by rows upon rows of Noxborough’s City Guard that came marching through the streets. Civilians could be seen peeking out the windows—some waving colourful fabrics towards their soldiers, as to show their gratitude and appreciation, and some spitting out the windows and cursing them. The guards, although still quite far away, reeked of fear and uncertainty. The Vasaath knew, then and there, that those men did not feel the strength of their own numbers, but felt alone in the crowd.

The Duke was nowhere to be seen, and the Vasaath snorted loudly to himself. He wasn’t surprised—disappointed, but not surprised. The drums silenced, and shouts from their captains ordered the men to halt. The army stopped just on the edge of the big, now completely abandoned, market square that was the coming battlefield between them. Crows cawed around them, fighting a war of their own with the seagulls in the sky. A bark was heard from afar as galloping hooves echoed between the houses. Soon, the guards let through three horsemen that rode into the middle of the market square. It was a wish for parley, and even though the Vasaath had no interest in discussing a truce, he understood that this was only a show—the Duke had no intention of actually fighting. He only wanted to flaunt his strength.

The Vasaath called for two of his highest-ranking officers and entered the square. He was on his guard, keeping keen eyes on the surroundings. He didn’t trust these mainlanders, and if someone tried to shoot him dead while speaking with the emissaries, he would be ready. They reached the horsemen, but none of them dismounted—they wanted to maintain their status. Ironically, their heights didn’t differ that drastically from the Kas warriors’, even though they were on horsebacks.

“Bow to Lord Sebastian Arlington, son of the Duke of Noxborough, second in line to the Northern Dukedom and the Lonely Islands!” barked one of the guards.

The Vasaath glared at the three horsemen. The one in the middle, straddling a white stallion, was just a boy with rosy cheeks and innocent, silver eyes. The general beheld Lady Juniper’s brother, but did not bow. “You haven’t come to submit, so why should I?”

The boy had some troubles keeping the agitated equine under control. “We have come to bargain.”

The general couldn’t suppress a sneer. If the Duke thought the Vasaath would agree to another truce, he was delusional. “And what do you wish to bargain for?”

“You hold my sister as your prisoner,” said the boy as the horse snorted vigorously. “Lady Juniper. I demand that ou return her to our father.”

The Vasaath frowned. At first, he wanted to laugh at the boy and tell him that the lady had come to him by her own free will. She was no prisoner. But then, of course, they would never believe that a woman had such agency. “And what if I refuse?”

The boy was baffled. Surely, he had not expected the Vasaath to turn down such a demand seeing as there were one thousand men against him. “She is of no value to you!” said the young lord. “She is barely of value to us!”

“And yet you—or rather, your _father_ —has marched here with your entire military force.” The Vasaath gestured towards the City Guard. “It’s impressive, indeed. But I’d be more impressed if this wasn’t just for show.”

The boy on the unruly horse huffed. “Just for show? Are you mad? _Damn_ this horse!” He led the stallion in a circle before continuing, “I have a thousand men just waiting for my orders. We will wipe you out in minutes, and still, you defy me?”

The Vasaath did not take kindly to empty threats. He tightened his jaw, straightened, and seared his eyes into the boy. “We are ready to fight, and we are ready to die. Are you?”

Uncertainty shadowed the boy’s face and he leaned in to one of the guards that accompanied him. After a few exchanged words, he straightened in the saddle. “I see little use in staining this square red—or whatever colour _your_ blood is—but I see you are determined. How you believe you could win a battle when you’re outnumbered ten to one, is beyond me. Frankly, the mere thought of how easily we would crush you is tiresome. Just give us my sister, and we will be on our way.”

“Well, isn’t that unnecessary?” the Vasaath asked. “Marching all this way, just to turn back again? We Grey Ones will still be here—the _invaders_ will still be at large… now is your chance to get rid of us, once and for all. Unless, of course, you aren’t really ready to fight?” He sighed and tipped his head to the side. “Have you ever seen a real battle, Lord Sebastian? Has anyone of your men? I remember my first. The stale smell of blood filling my nostrils, the sound of dying men across the battlefield as they cry for their mothers, the sight of dismembered bodies in piles and piles… glorious.” He looked at the boy, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the rosy cheeks were pale—ashy, even. “I will not hand over the lady.”

The boy shifted in his saddle and seemed to ponder his next move. Then, he said, “your pigheadedness astounds me, Warlord. Your recollection of war sickens me. It seems as though your disillusion has you believe you can win this fight. To prove that you cannot, I suggest a duel. One of my soldiers, against one of yours. I know you underestimate the skill and strength of humans, and that will be your downfall. Let everyone see what they’re up against—man as well as beast. Let them all see that a thousand men are indeed nine hundred more than one hundred men.”

The Vasaath raised a brow. He looked at his men, and then he looked at the City Guard. It wouldn’t be a fair fight, he knew that even though the boy did not. But perhaps it was the best way to make the young lord understand that war was ghastly, brutal, and irreparable. “Very well,” said he. “A soldier for a soldier. I will be gracious enough to pick a regular solider—not an officer, nor myself—but you may choose whomever you’d like.” He turned to one of his offices and ordered him to fetch a _kasaath_. He turned back to the boy. “Now, you pick your champion.”

“It will be I,” said one of the horsemen. He was a large man, with heavy metal armour and the face of someone who had indeed seen his fair share of fighting—he was no ordinary City Guard, he was a knight.

The Vasaath was impressed—perhaps the fight would be interesting, after all. When his officer returned, he brought with him a _kasaath_ that was just as skilled as any other soldier of the _Saathenaan_. Not better, or worse. He would be a splendid representative to show the skill of the elite warriors of Kasarath, and to show that _he_ was not the one to underestimate his opponents.

The knight dismounted his horse and the two soldiers took place on the square. The human was tall and broad, but next to the Kas, he seemed unimpressive, mediocre. The knight drew his sword and the _kasaath_ readied his spear. When the fighting commenced, the knight proved to be quite fierce. He hit hard, knew his techniques well, and was firmly grounded—but he had only a very restrictive set of moves, and his armour slowed him down considerably. This, every Kas warrior knew. They all traded the protection of metal for the agility of leather. The _kasaath_ had to be creative, yes, and his blood was spilt, but his excellent skill with the spear and his speed and agility together with his brute strength and relentlessness finally had the knight on his knees. The killing blow was swift, precise. The armoured knight fell lifeless to the ground, landing on the stone with a loud rustle. The silence that followed was thick and looming. The _kasaath_ returned to his brothers, and the boy on the white stallion stared with enormous eyes on the dead champion that lay in his own blood on the market square.

“I take it that was your best warrior,” said the Vasaath, and his voice seemed to echo ominously over the silent square.

The boy couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dead man, and said nothing in reply.

The Vasaath dared to take a step towards the horses and the two men now remaining. “Now you know what you are up against, Lord Sebastian. As do I. If you still want to take the risk, then by all means, attack us. Your sister isn’t mine to give up, anyway. I hold her in no chains, she is free to leave whenever she’d like. That is known to her, and yet, she would rather stay with foreigners than join the man your father has chosen for her. Do with that what you will. The choice is all yours.”

The boy was bewildered. He seemed unable to express his feelings, and the guard on the last horse had a greenish hue in his face. Finally, the young lord spoke, his voice strained, “you will regret this, _beast_. We may not fight today, but know this: five thousand men are on their way from Westbridge, and then it wouldn’t matter how skilled your soldiers are.”

The Vasaath blinked slowly. If the boy only knew that more than two hundred ships from Kasarath had been called for, he would run back home in tears. But the little lord turned his wild horse around and returned to his men. The other horseman brought the knight’s brown mare with him and followed the boy. Soon, orders were barked, and the City Guard army turned on their heels and marched back. A few stayed behind to retrieve the dead knight from the square on a stretcher, and once they had disappeared between the houses, the silence held once again dominion.

Turning to look at his men, the Vasaath exclaimed, “there will be no more fighting today. We will save our strength for another day. Keep fortifying the harbour.” His men responded with a single war cry before they, too, abandoned their lines and returned to the fort, only to exchange their spears for hammers and nails.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Kasaath** – _warrior_ ; “strength of the people”  
 **Kaseraad** – _spies_ ; “the shadow of the people”  
 **Ohkas** – _stranger_ ; “not of Kas”; “not of the people”  
 **Ohkasenon** – foreign follower of the Kasenon; “follower of the faith of the people but not of the people”  
 **Rasaath** – _officer_ ; dutiful soldier; true soldier  
 **Saathenaan** – elite warriors; “deepest strength”  
 **Vas-an lit basran** – “order through submission”


	30. The Open Cage: XVIII

** XVIII **

  
When she left the Vasaath’s tent that morning, she was still mortified by her recklessness earlier. The general hadn’t in any way acknowledged her indecency, even though he had every right to—what had she been thinking, asking him for help dressing? She was ashamed, but she did not let it show. Instead, she smiled, as sweetly as she could and pretended like it never happened.

When she met the Kamani in her tent, they were happy to see her. She fetched them some bread, some carrots, and some water, and once they were all fed, the children wanted to play. They were getting bored and restless, almost to the point where they would be forsaken if they didn’t have someplace to run and play and be children. When Kasethen joined her, she was beyond relieved to be pried away from the children who adored her like a princess.

“I see it is quite lively in here,” said Kasethen, and Juniper could see the line between his brows.

She sighed deeply. “There must be some other place they could stay? Please, Kasethen, the children need space to run!”

“This isn’t a place for children, my lady,” said Kasethen.

“There must be somewhere!” she begged. “Look at these people, Kasethen! This is a cage!”

The advisor looked about the tent, pondering. Then he said, “there might be space for them amongst the converters. They will have to build their own shelters, but someone could probably house them until then.”

Juniper sighed in relief. She knew there were converters and she knew they were housed at the farthest end of the encampment, towards the woods, but she had never met them nor seen their housings. But she agreed. Together, they escorted the Kamani away from the fort and out the western gates. The soldiers were too busy to notice them as they walked through, and soon enough, more and more humans started to appear. She recognised some of them as _ohkasenon_ , but some were dressed in rags. Soon, she felt as though she was in the poorer districts of her own city—only, the people had more food and better shelter. She had a sick feeling to her stomach as she walked through it, and their eyes followed her like wolves; they hated her, and to them, she was nothing but a tyrant. She walked closer to Kasethen. “These people came to you?”

“Many of them were starving on the streets,” said Kasethen. “So yes, they came to us for shelter.”

“They would rather turn to strangers and frightening invaders than plead to their Lord…” It was a sad realisation, and she wondered how bad it truly was in the city, and how deep their resentment ran. She had never been allowed to go further than the market districts unchaperoned, and even when she _was_ chaperoned, she had only ever been allowed to see the front stage where people kissed her feet and threw beautiful flowers at her. She had never seen the starving people up close, never been within their reach. Her escape from Fairgarden brought her closer to the people than ever before. Now, walking amongst those brave enough to turn away from Noxborough to seek their fortunes elsewhere, she was frightened.

Kasethen, ever so watchful, seemed to notice her uncertainty and graciously offered her his arm. “My lady, you mustn’t slip in the mud.”

She took it, thankful for his support.

The Kamani were thankful, as well, to be provided with space and housing with people they didn’t have to feel fear towards. The children were happy, and it seemed as though they were acquainted with some of the converters.

“Do you think you’ll be comfortable here?” Juniper asked the old man she knew as Vincent.

He nodded. “Indeed, my lady. Thank you for all your care and help! May the Builder be with you.”

She smiled, grateful she had at least some friends amongst her own. She then turned to Kasethen. “Perhaps we should return?” She felt anxious, knowing the wolfish eyes kept following her.

“But, my lady,” said Kasethen, “prove to the others that you care. Help them build.”

She looked at him, bewildered, afraid. “But I… I don’t know how to build. I’m… I’m worthless!”

Kasethen smiled. “Indeed, you’re not! Come, I’ll help as well. Show your interest, show you aren’t like your father, and then we can return to the safety of the fort.”

Reluctantly, she agreed. It wasn’t as much the work as it was the hateful eyes that made her uneasy, but with Kasethen and the Kamani by her side, she soon relaxed and helped with what she could. Mainly, that meant keeping the children occupied, seeing as they simply wouldn’t leave her be. After an hour or two, Kasethen said it was time he and Juniper withdrew back to the fort. She agreed, relieved to escape from the eyes that hadn’t grown kinder during the past hour.

“See, it wasn’t so hard,” said Kasethen as they made their way back.

Juniper smiled. “No, but the people there truly hate me. I’ve never seen such disdain before.”

“Would you rather have them fear you?” he asked.

“No,” said she. “I would like them to like me, but I suppose even a neutral feeling would be better than the sheer hate I felt from them now.”

“You must learn to ignore what others think of you,” said Kasethen. “They don’t see you when they look at you, my lady—they see your father, and his father, and his father before that. They see House Arlington, the ruling tyrants, not the fair maiden who wants nothing but the best for her people.”

Juniper smiled half-heartedly. “I beg your pardon, sir, but here, no one seen the woman as anything but precisely that—a _woman_.”

“You speak so bitterly,” Kasethen chuckled. “One can almost suspect you don’t exactly _like_ how your sex is treated.”

“Don’t mock me, Kasethen,” muttered Juniper. “I can laugh about many things, but I am tired of laughing at my disposition.”

“I meant you no harm, my lady. On the contrary—I, too, think women of these lands are far too oppressed. You need freedom as much as any man. Within the Kasenon, we believe that each and every one is worth as much as the other, and one’s freedom is indisputable.”

“But can you truly call it freedom?” Juniper asked. “One is placed within a profession, and stuck with it for the rest of one’s life… how could that be freedom?”

“Well, my lady, we are all free to choose within our roles,” said Kasethen. “We have to have some structure to our society, lest we’d turn savage, so yes, I suppose we do sacrifice ultimate freedom. But one has to wonder: isn’t the freedom of every possible choice also a prison of a sort? A baker knows what is expected of him and what he is supposed to do to serve his people and earn his living—he doesn’t have to choose between every possible profession. Such a choice would surely be misery! A baker is just as important as a soldier, but the baker and the soldier are both free to choose within their roles. They are allowed to spend their free time in whatever manner they want, as long as they abide by the Kasenon.” He sighed. “They are free to love whomever they want.”

“Not everyone,” she mumbled.

He chuckled. “Ah, yes, our stern and harsh Vasaath. I understand you two have grown rather close—”

“No, I-I didn’t—”

“I have seen how you look at him, my lady,” said Kasethen, causing a deep blush on Juniper’s cheeks. “Oh, there is no shame to it, I assure you. He is a fine male specimen, indeed. Strong, handsome, brave… I doubt there are any arguments against the matter. But he has his restrictions, yes. His attention is rarely bestowed.”

“I don’t expect to receive his attention,” she mumbled and kept her gaze on the ground.

“Well,” said Kasethen, “he _is_ a man, and you are a beautiful woman. I believe you’ve had his attention from the moment you stepped into his tent for the first time.”

“If that’s the case, he isn’t the best at showing it,” she replied.

Again, Kasethen chuckled. “Have you ever thought of the Vasaath as a romantic person? Of course you haven’t. No one has, because he has never been one. Yet, he has been more intimate with you than he has with anyone that isn’t a _maasa_.”

The flush on her cheeks deepened. “How did you know?”

“Oh, the Vasaath and I have no secrets,” said Kasethen. “I was the one to tell him to hold you when you returned after your confinement in Fairgarden.”

She looked at him, bewildered, and her heart sank. “You told him to? I thought—” She swallowed and clenched her jaw. “I thought he did it because he wanted to.”

“Don’t think of it as an insult, my lady. The Vasaath doesn’t console. I don’t think he had ever held a crying person in his entire life before you. He didn’t know what to do, and the fact that he did indeed hold you when I told him to, tells a great deal of how much he cares about you.”

Juniper bit her lip, feeling quite conflicted.

“Kas don’t show emotion the same as you mainlanders do, and it’s—”

“Kasethen! Listen.” She suddenly placed a hand on his arm and stopped. In the distance, she heard it—the drums. “That’s the beat assembly of the City Guard… but why are they—” She looked at the advisor, bewildered. “Kasethen, are they marching? Are they marching this way?”

Kasethen clenched his jaw. “My lady, let’s not be—”

“Are they marching this way, Kasethen?”

He sighed deeply, and then he nodded. “Yes.”

She huffed. “I have to stop them. They have over a thousand men in the City Guard, Kasethen. You can’t win, there are too many of them! I must speak to my father.” She grabbed the skirts of her dress to make haste, but was swiftly held back by Kasethen. She looked at him, questioning. “What are you doing?”

“I am keeping you from doing anything hasty,” he said.

“Let me go,” she demanded, but Kasethen held fast. “Kasethen, let me go!”

“I cannot let you do anything that could compromise the Kas, my lady,” said he.

She tried to break free from his grip, but with little success. “Let me go!”

“Come now, my lady,” said he and began dragging her with him. It would have been gently, had it not been for her struggles. “I will escort you to the Vasaath’s tent.”

She struggled against him all the way. She had grown so used to the general’s strength, she thought she might be able to fight Kasethen, at least, but he was as much Kas as the general was, and her struggles made no difference. He pulled her along into the Vasaath’s tent just as she heard the Kas warriors enter into the courtyard. She tried, once again, to escape Kasethen, but he would not let her out. All she could do was yell at him. She heard the _Saathenaan_ yell their war cries, and she heard the Vasaath say his words to his men. She did not understand it, but she knew enough of warfare to know it was to inspire the soldiers to fight harder.

When they marched, Juniper helped herself to a large glass of wine. She was still searing, and when Kasethen tried to start a conversation, she only snapped at him. She wanted silence to hear what was happening, but when the drums had silenced and when the commands had stopped ringing between the buildings, she heard nothing. She finished the glass with impressive speed, and poured herself another. When Kasethen told her to calm down, she hissed at him to be quiet. She thought she heard swords and steel clash, but there was no great battle, no cries and screams of dying men. She saw the bottle of the glass much quicker this time, and she was quick to refill it. Again, Kasethen tried to make her calm down, but she rebuked him. She paced the tent until she once again heard the marching of soldiers. This time, they seemed to march away. In an instant, she stopped her pacing, and she waited for the soldiers to return. What had happened? Who had died? And why had she been confined?

It did not take more than ten minutes after the soldiers had returned into the fort before the Vasaath entered his tent. He seemed unscathed—clean, even. Had he been fighting at all? But she could neither express any relief nor curiosity; all she could do was to express the rage that welled up. “What’s the meaning of this?” she growled at him.

The Vasaath huffed and said some words to Kasethen, who then left the tent. When they were alone, he looked at her. “Calm yourself. There was no fighting.”

“Then what were you doing?”

The Vasaath smirked and walked to the drink table to pour himself a cup of wine. “I swore this jug was full when I left…” He sighed and turned to her while taking a sip. “I met your brother. Charming boy.”

She gawked at him. “Sebastian? Why would he—” She clenched her jaw. “My father is a coward, of course he’d send a boy. Did you harm him?”

The general snorted. “I didn’t touch a hair on his head. He just wanted to display his strength, as if it would impress me.”

She huffed. “So that was what you were doing? Measuring _manhoods_?”

The Vasaath looked at her, his eyes bored. Arrogance flashed in his face, a feature most uncommon for the Vasaath. “If that was the case, my lady, there would be no competition.” While Juniper rolled her eyes, he continued, “but yes, I suppose we did… in a way. They marched home with their tails between their legs.”

She could not suppress a laugh, but it was shrill and did a very poor job hiding her fury. “Then why have I been forbidden to leave this tent?”

“I couldn’t risk you doing anything reckless.”

“Reckless?” She slammed the glass down onto the table. “And when have I _ever_ been reckless? That is my brother! And had it not been my brother, it would have been my father!” She strode up to him—the wine gave her courage and the rage gave her motivation. “Did it ever occur to you that I might be useful? That _I_ could speak to them? I, who know them?”

“And let you return to the lion’s den where they are about to chain you to your neck?” he bellowed.

“It’s my _little brother_!” she exclaimed. “He’s a sweet boy! He is a victim in this, not a culprit!”

“And yet he told me you were of no value to him,” he growled. “He’s a lion, just like your father.”

“Oh, yes, how gallant of you then, to protect me, the poor little lamb, from the monstrous lions,” she spat. “Instead, you chain me up, too!”

“You came to _me_ ,” he barked and slammed his own glass onto the table. “You cried at my chest for an hour! Your face has barely healed since last they had their claws in you; who knows what horrors they would subject you to if you returned now?”

“Do you think me unintelligent?” she barked back. “Do you truly think I would return to them? I would _talk_ to them, as _civilized_ people do!”

He huffed, his chest heaving and his nostrils flaring; his hands opened and closed, again and again. “I couldn’t risk it,” he then repeated through gritted teeth as he took a step closer. He leaned down towards her, towering over her, his face peering down upon hers.

“You told me I wasn’t your prisoner,” she growled as she raised her finger at him.

With a grunt, he grabbed her wrist as he scowled. “You’re not.”

“Then why was I not allowed outside?” She tried to pull away, but she was once again detained by strong hands. “Let me go!” But he would not, and his grip tightened. “If I wasn’t your prisoner,” she said, her voice breaking from the angry cries that wanted to escape her, “then why do you treat me like one? If I am not allowed to leave, then isn’t that the definition of a prisoner? You won’t even let me go!”

“I don’t _want_ you to leave!” he growled and pulled her to him.

Her chest heaved, anger still hot inside her. Their faces were close, and she wished she could yell at him even more and tell him that he was a liar, that he was dishonourable and false and that she never should have trusted him, but his words—though sounding harsh and unforgiving—was like sweet honey for her soul. He didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t _want_ it. She wanted… she _wanted_ … want… it was all she could think of as she stood on her toes and slammed her lips against his. She had never kissed a man before, not properly; what Lord Christopher did to her could hardly be called a kiss. This, however, was a real one. He could probably taste the wine on her lips, because she could taste it on his. They were softer than she’d imagined—fuller—and the anger disappeared at once. He released her, startled, and she quickly pulled away with a gasp. She looked at him, bewildered, and he looked back, just as shocked. She feared she had done something wrong, something improper. She feared she had insulted the man. “I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

But he pulled her back to him, a ponder upon his brow. He cupped her face and seemed to examine her lips with curious yet soulful eyes. He asked, softly, “why did you do that?”

She was confused, ashamed, but she said, “because I wanted to, sir.”

He stood still, her face in his hands, and seemed utterly perplexed. To clarify her heart’s desires, she closed her eyes, reached up, and kissed him again. Softly, this time. Slowly. She touched his cheek tenderly, and then he responded. He sighed, held her close to his body, and claimed her lips the way she had dreamt he would. He wrapped his arms around her waist, held her close, and kissed her deeply. She dared to taste him, dared to feel his sharp teeth against her tongue. He tasted of spiced wine and metal; his tongue was smooth, warm, and strong; his breath was hot, heavy, and wanting. She dared to let her fingers touch his hair, and lace with his thick braid and the fashioned mats, and she pulled him down, closer to her, melting into him as though they were one. He growled lowly against her, and he pushed her away.

“Juniper, don’t,” he breathed, holding her at a safe distance.

She swallowed and dampened her plumped lips. Her cheeks burned, her heart raced, and she wanted nothing but to kiss him again. If she wasn’t fully mistaken, there was a shade of pink upon the great Vasaath’s cheeks as well. Juniper brought her hands together and asked, “did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he muttered. “No…” He sighed. “You’ve had too much wine, my lady. Go rest before supper. I have much to discuss with my advisor.”

She let her eyes fall to the ground and she nodded. “Yes, sir, you are right. I’ll go lie down for a little while.”

The Vasaath only grunted before he left the tent. Juniper cursed herself for her insolence, but could not help but to savour the little taste she had left of him on her lips. The large amount of wine she had consumed in such a short time was, however, starting to make itself known, just as the reality of the situations was dawning on her—her head was spinning, her thoughts were dull and in disarray, and she felt her balance fail her. Trying not to fall, she made her way into the bedchamber. She lay down just in time to keep the world from spinning all too much. She lay there in his bed, looking up at the canvas, and relived the kiss in her head again and again. Her heart was throbbing, her cheeks were glowing, and she wished he would come to her and kiss her again.

* * *


	31. The Open Cage: XIX

** XIX **

  
He had been undone. He had to escape her lest he’d lose control, and that was beneath him. But oh!—how he wanted to taste her lips again. He wanted to taste all of her. He could barely remember last time he kissed a woman on the lips; he was a boy and the woman was a _maasa_ , that much he remembered, and he thought he had been in love. Such a ridiculous thought it was, but he was just a boy, and the _maasa_ had soft, pillowy breasts and whispered soft, comforting words in his ear. The infatuation ceased, and it taught him the difference between deep feelings and lust; a kiss was only bestowed upon those of one’s deepest care. It destroyed him to realise that he wanted to kiss Lady Juniper again, and again, and again.

Not even Kasethen’s endless ranting about the benefits of a peaceful invasion could turn his head around. He kept thinking about the feel of her lips, of his tongue around hers, of her breath hot in his mouth, of her hands in his hair… he tried to push the thoughts away, but they were seared into his mind and memory for all eternity.

“Are you even listening?” Kasethen then snapped.

The Vasaath looked at his advisor. “No… my thoughts were elsewhere.”

“What’s bothering you, _venaas_?”

Shaking his head, the Vasaath let out a deep sigh. “It doesn’t matter.”

Kasethen sighed. “I take it the lady was quite upset, then?”

The Vasaath grunted, but said nothing.

“She was very angry with me, at least,” said Kasethen. “I suppose we will see more of that in the future—the Duke is not giving up, and I don’t see Lady Juniper as someone who does, either.”

Looking out over the courtyard, spying his tent in the distance, he certainly hoped she’d never give up her fire. He would rather take a thousand arguments with her than see her lose it.

“So, was it her they came for?” Kasethen asked.

“Yes.”

“And did you tell them that she is free to leave?”

“Yes.”

“They won’t be honest with the Duke of Westbridge,” said Kasethen. “They aren’t that stupid.”

“No, I don’t expect them to be,” said the Vasaath.

“There are still several months until winter, and they won’t wait that long.” Then he sighed. “How many soldiers does Westbridge have?”

“Five thousand,” the Vasaath muttered. “Both Lord Sebastian and Lord Christopher said five thousand.”

“And do you believe them?”

“They’re both vain enough to be stupid,” said the general. “Lady Juniper tried to quiet the Cornwall boy down, but he wanted to flaunt his strength. I think he genuinely thought it a good idea to tell his enemies how large his army really is, thinking he could frighten me.”

“My lord,” Kasethen muttered, “six thousand soldiers are too many, even _if_ our men were to fight with the strength of ten mainlanders.”

“The _Saath_ will come.”

Kasethen spoke no more of the matter, and the Vasaath was once again occupied with his thoughts of the lady’s lips. He kept reminding himself that a kiss was not as symbolic amongst the mainlanders as it was amongst the Kas. A noblewoman would, however, not show such appetite unless it meant something—and she had kissed him, with passion. It wasn’t he who let his discipline slide, it was she. Indeed, he couldn’t possibly interpret it as something else than interest. So his efforts had not been in vain. Now was the time to solidify their mutual attraction, and satisfy his needs—and perhaps he would be able to focus on the dire task at hand, at last, after the deed.

He prepared a fair but direct proposition for supper. He was to tell her that pining did neither of them any good. He wanted her, and she wanted him. It was a fair transaction, one she would surely see the sense and benefit of. Certainly, he shouldn’t have any qualms suggestion it, because it was fair, and sensible, and logical… and something he wanted so ardently, he could barely stand it any longer. Yet, he was nervous.

When the time came, he waited for her by the table. She came out from the bedchamber, looking rather miserable. She seemed weary, idle.

The Vasaath furrowed his brows. “Are you unwell, my lady?”

The girl sighed and slowly lowered herself down by the table. “You must think me so weak—and foolish. I can’t hold my wine.”

“I’ve already told you it’s not your fault. The drink is strong. When will you learn that?”

She glared at him. “I was upset, and didn’t think.” Then her cheeks flushed and she looked down on the table. “I didn’t think at all, and acted foolishly.”

He clenched his jaw. Perhaps she didn’t _think_ , but that didn’t mean she was foolish. He grunted and looked at her. He couldn’t wait any longer. Now was the time. He was certain she wouldn’t deny him.

“When you spoke with my little brother,” she suddenly said, and the Vasaath grunted even louder. “Did he seem frightened?”

“He would never admit it, but he was frightened, yes,” said he, impatiently. “Let’s not—”

“He has a great burden on his shoulders, you know,” said the girl. “Being the next in line for the dukedom has always weighed on him, even as a small child. He always wanted to make Father happy, but Sebastian is too kind-hearted. He and I have both suffered from our father’s cruelty, just in different ways.” She sighed. “He doesn’t deserve this.” She looked down, and she quickly dried a tear away from her cheek.

The Vasaath clenched his jaw tightly, cursing to himself. He couldn’t possibly ask her now when her heart was sorrowful—that would make him nothing but an inconsiderate hound. Instead, he poured himself a glass of wine and drank bitterly.

Lady Juniper looked at the food on the table, but did not touch it.

“You must eat,” the Vasaath muttered.

She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Drink some water, at least.” He poured her a glass, and he was happy to see her drink it. A moment of silence followed, and even the Vasaath found it somewhat uncomfortable. He wondered if they could truly spend the evening together without speaking about what had happened, without reaching for each other, craving. But in her current fragile state, he did not want to suggest anything.

“Kasethen helped me find new accommodations for the Kamani today.” Her voice was weary, sad.

“Is that so?” he muttered.

“Yes, with the _ohkasenon_ and those… ready to convert. I…” She sighed. “I didn’t know there were so many of them.”

“They seek better prospects here,” said the Vasaath. “All their lives, they’ve only known famine and pain. Your Builder has never done them any good. Neither has your father, I take it. Here, they seek worth, honour, and respect. When they submit to the Kasenon, they shall have it all.”

The girl bit her lip. When she met his eyes, she was defeated. “I hope you can give them a better life.” She then sighed again and looked away.

The Vasaath tried to think of something to say, but nothing seemed appropriate. Instead, he had his supper, his wine, and the two of them spent the rest of the night in silence.

When the dark had fallen, Juniper said, “I think I might withdraw a bit earlier tonight. Now that my own accommodation is once again vacant, I can—”

“We will change your bedding tomorrow. Stay here tonight.”

Juniper shook her head. “No, it’s no trouble. It’s only been a couple of nights, and the children have been sleeping there.”

The Vasaath sighed deeply. “They might have had… fleas.”

“Now you’re just being cruel,” she muttered. “I’m not in the mood for an argument, sir.” She stood and then she curtsied. “I have a headache. We’ll speak more in the morning. Good night, my lord.”

He watched her leave, confounded. After a moment, he felt foolish. He thought he might at least spend the night next to her again—even though he had hoped it would be more intimate than that. It couldn’t be helped, however. He would have her, or he would go mad—if not today, then tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then the day after that, or the day after that.

* * *


	32. The Open Cage: XX

** XX **

  
Juniper lay in her bed that evening, crying and cursing in turns. She feared for her brother—she could scarcely believe her father had sent his only son and heir to battle the Grey Ones. Sebastian had never fought a battle in his entire life. He had only sparred with the guards and trained with his swordmaster, but he had never fought for life and death. He was brash, thoughtless, and arrogant, yes—she had many times wished he would just grow up. But he was also young, and kind-hearted, and naive. If he were to fight the Grey Ones, he would surely perish.

She felt anger towards the Vasaath. Knowing she could not blame him for not understanding her responsibilities towards her baby brother, she wished he would at least _try_ to understand the agony she felt in knowing he was being sent into battle where death was imminent. He had brushed it off, impatiently and abruptly, and seemed uninterested in her agony. He would have killed him if it had come to that. It was an unfeeling side of him she had rarely seen but had known was there all the same. It vexed her—it saddened her!—immensely.

Moreover, she felt ashamed of herself. She shouldn’t have drunk so much wine, she shouldn’t have made a fool of herself in front of the general—what had she been thinking, flinging herself at him like that? What must he think of her? A harlot? The mere fact that he hadn’t mentioned it, made it all the worse. Her heart fluttered at the memory of their burning encounter, but it was improper and impetuous. He did receive her, yes, but she had heard many times from the men around her that there was nothing like a woman to fill the void after a brawl. He pushed her back because he realised how improper it was—she was an _ohkas_ , and a human, so she was hardly what he truly desired. She was sure of it. She didn’t want to be, but she was. Either way, what she did was extremely unladylike, and brash. Her mother must be turning in her grave! But—oh!—how she wished he was one of her kind, one that would court her and ask for her hand. In truth, she wished _he_ would, as he was, but knew it would never come to that. He despised marriage. How impossible a dream she had, how foolish her heart was. The Vasaath made her weak, and furious, and as she lay in the darkness, wrapped in the furs, she missed his warm body against hers.

The next morning, she was famished. Bread and honey would not do and she went to the cook for a more substantial breakfast. On her way back, she walked across the battlements and saw the barricades around Winter Harbour. A chill crawled along her spine as she watched the men build the walls higher and sturdier. There were no people other than the Kas and the _ohkasenon_ by the harbour that day, and the ships and boats docked there were abandoned. A large Illyrian trade ship was anchored in the bay, silent as the grave. There would be no more wine and grapes and appleberries for her father.

The city was quiet. She knew the people must be scared—the children, terrified. The looming threat the Kas posted was bad enough, but to have the entire City Guard marching to battle must have been a terrible awakening for everyone. Noxborough hadn’t seen war for hundreds of years, not since the War of the Kings. Its true horrors were long forgotten save for the recollections from books and ballads. She wondered, then, what the people would write and sing about the Kas invasion a hundred years into the future—would they sing about the greatness of the Vasaath and his soldiers, or would they sing about the bravery of those who dared to oppose him?

While gazing over the barricades, she spied the Vasaath himself walking towards her atop the battlements. When he reached her, she curtsied and greeted him properly. She was still embarrassed and could barely look him in the eye.

He nodded, his hands behind his back. He had a troubled and stern face. “How are you today, my lady? Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, my lord,” said she. “I believe I’ve learned my lesson now. I shall keep my wine consumption to a minimum. But today, at least, I feel well.”

“Good,” he said, urgent. “We have something to discuss.” He looked at her under furrowed brows, his mouth pressed together in a thin line, as he motioned her to walk with him.

Worry began rising in her chest, but she followed suit. “Is something the matter, sir?”

“Your stay here,” he said, and her worry grew. She knew she had acted foolishly. He sighed. “It has become… bothersome for me.” Grunting frustratedly, he said, “what happened between us yesterday—”

“Please,” she exclaimed as she halted, causing him to silence and turn to her. “Let me explain myself. Let me apologise! I—”

“I wasn’t finished.” His tone was harsh, his gaze demanding, and caused her to regress. “What happened between us yesterday proved that there are some things that cannot be repressed any longer. I have tried, but it will not do. I am sure you feel the same. You have a curiosity that must be indulged.” He clenched his jaw. “And I have a need that must be satisfied. So I have a proposal for you.”

She felt numbness upon her; her knees were trembling and her throat ran dry. Her thoughts were all in disarray, and coldness spread through her like a winter storm. A proposal? She didn’t dare to imagine, didn’t dare to wish where he was heading. Just the night before, she had dared to think it, but she knew it was impossible. One thing, nevertheless, was certain: the Vasaath needed to destroy the alliance between Noxborough and Westbridge, and if he were to wed her—but no, he couldn’t possibly mean marriage! She couldn’t think it! Not the great Kas general! But if not, what was he speaking of? She knew her own curiosities—that much was true—but what need did he speak of? She pressed out, “what proposal, sir?”

His face was still troublesome and he once again motioned her to walk, which she did. They strolled in silence along the battlements for a moment before he said, “I know it might seem forwards and bold, but the tension that exists between us can only be resolved one way.”

Her heart nearly stopped, and faintness was upon her. If he were to say matrimony, she was sure her knees would buckle underneath her. The wind would carry her away. Her chest would explode. She told herself to still her heart, but it would not do.

“You and I must lie together,” he then said, determinedly. “Intimately.”

At first, she wasn’t certain she truly caught it. The world seemed to stop; her movements turned sluggish, as though she walked through a haze. Did he truly suggest… _intercourse_?

“Do you accept?” he asked, but she didn’t hear the question—she only heard the consequences if she did not.

She suddenly heard her father’s voice in her head, telling her that men only wanted one thing with women, and if the man was powerful enough, he would get it sooner or later. The Vasaath was indeed a powerful man, and even though she vividly remembered him telling her that she could stay with him for as long as she wanted, he never said it was unconditionally. He never specified such a detail. Surely, she couldn’t ignore the fact that he started his argument saying that her stay had become _bothersome_ for him. Her heart fell, like a stone in her chest.

“Well?” he said impatiently, his teeth tightly pressed together.

The world found its rhythm again, slowly; the haze dispersed, and Juniper felt strangely defeated. If she would have to choose between a miserable marriage with Lord Christopher, life on the streets where people hated her with vigour, and lying down with the Vasaath, the choice would be simple even if it meant she might risk an eternity in the Netherworld for it. It wasn’t necessarily a bad fate, nor could she pretend like she hadn’t imagined it in her lonesomeness, but to imagine something and to do something were different matters entirely. Perhaps she had let her heart stray too far from what was real—she thought he had deeper feelings for her, that the tension between them was more than physical. But now he had made it quite clear that the interest he had in her could only be resolved by intimacy. Not by romance, not by courtship, but by lying together. In the end, her person wasn’t what had interested him; perhaps it was his lack of female companionship, or perhaps he simply saw her as a perfect candidate to console his loneliness. Whatever the reason, her father had been right. She had to accept the fact that she had very little say in the matter. It angered her, offended her—but most of all, it saddened her. She composed herself, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Yes.”

The Vasaath narrowed his eyes, clenched his jaw tighter, and then nodded. “Good. I’ll send Kasethen to fetch the things you need from a _maasa_.”

She felt the heat rush to her face—she didn’t know that much about that sort of intimacy, but what _things_ could she possibly need? She didn’t dare ask him, and continued walking in silence next to him.

The Vasaath’s face had shifted. He seemed relieved, serene. He stopped to look out over the sea, and Juniper gently leaned over the stone. She wanted it to look unencumbered, as though she wasn’t affected at all by what had just transpired, but the truth was that she could barely feel her legs. She was cold, nauseous.

“Soon,” he said, “red sails will be on the horizon. When they come, I shall defeat your father, and you will find your freedom.”

She tried to reply, but no words seemed to find their way to her lips. She gazed out over the bay and the Winter Sea. In that moment, she was terrified—the day _would_ come when war was imminent. There was nothing she could do to stop it, no matter how much she had thought so. She had been foolish, and naive. She saw that now.

The Vasaath excused himself and said that he had to oversee the barricades, but that he was looking forwards to seeing her that evening. He had a strange hunger in his eyes, one she hadn’t noticed before, and it sent chills along her spine—she wondered, then, if that was the same look he had given her every time she thought he would kiss her. How could she have misinterpreted it so wildly, now when she saw it so clearly?

She returned to her tent and sat down on her bed, and stared into nothingness. She tried to fathom what had been said, what she had agreed upon, but her mind was numb. She felt so naive, so gullible. She was indeed a hopeless romantic, and the more she pondered, the more she realised that she had been blind. She had been led to believe, by stupid fantasies, that there could be a world where the Vasaath loved her as a husband was supposed to love his wife. Such delusion.

She knew not when she lay down, nor when she fell asleep, but she awoke sometime later. Her body was dull, as was her head, and she slowly made her way into her main room. The thoughts that tormented her mind before were still there, but she had calmed. Indeed, there were far worse fates than bedding the Vasaath—she could think of a few that could very well be hers. It wasn’t so much the prospect of being intimate with him that had hurt her as it was the realisation his attraction was only physical. But she did like him, very much indeed, and she did trust him. She never thought she would experience that in her life—her mother taught her better. She might have dreamt it, but she never expected it. That alone made him the best alternative so far. If she could only mend her broken heart, all would surely be well.

She tried to occupy her mind with other things, things that wouldn’t necessarily echo the harsh reality she found herself in, but soon after, Kasethen arrived. With him was a woman, dressed in red. She was a human woman, neither young nor old, and her face wore markings in the same fashion she had seen on the Vasaath. This was an _ohkasenon_.

“Lady Juniper,” said Kasethen and smiled. “I hope you are well. In light of your… _predicament_ , with the Vasaath, I thought you might find solace with someone your own sex. This is Neema.”

“ _Vahanan_ ,” said the woman and nodded.

“She is _maasa_ ,” Kasethen continued. “If you have any questions, I am sure she can oblige, and I—oh, my dear girl, what is the matter?”

She couldn’t help it. Surely, she thought, the Kas must be terribly vexed by her tears by now. But she was heartbroken—not only because she truly _did_ believe there were was a stronger bond between herself and the general, but also because she was nervous, frightened, and she would have to admit that her father was right.

Before her stood a woman that could very well have been an expensive working girl in the pleasure districts of Noxborough, but this one served the Grey Ones; this one had, as they would call it, a _higher purpose_. She was properly dressed, yes, but Juniper could see; the alluring tied dress, the deep neckline, the voluptuous curves… she was Desire. It wasn’t any different anywhere else. Not even with the Kas. The world was cruel, unfair, and unjust—by men, and for men, no matter where she turned.

Kasethen embraced her gently. “Hush now. What troubles you, Juniper?”

She only shook her head. “I… I thought that he…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it, but she looked at him pleadingly. She wished that he would tell her that she was wrong, that there had been a mistake, and that the Vasaath hadn’t meant what he said and that he loved her with all his heart.

“You thought that he, what?” Kasethen asked, softly.

“Kasethen, leave her to me,” said the woman. She had a soft but stern voice. Kasethen did as the woman told him to, and then she sat down next to Juniper. “Sweet girl,” she said, “why are you crying?”

She shook her head again.

“Now, now,” said Neema, “there is always a reason, even though that reason is just sadness.”

“I…” She didn’t know if she dared to say it. She knew nothing of this woman, more than that she was an _ohkasenon_ , and a _maasa_. “I’m not…”

“Kasethen has told me about you,” said the woman. Her accent was strong. “He has told me about your stay here, and about the arrangement you have with the Vasaath.”

Juniper glanced up at the woman. Her eyes were green, her hair was golden, her waist was lean, her hips were wide, and her bosom was full. This, she thought, was a true beauty. Desire, indeed. Of course she was a _maasa_.

“I admit,” said the woman, “I was rather confounded to learn of it—the Vasaath has his own healers to tend to his needs, but I suppose he’s like any other man, after all.” The woman eyed her, and then huffed. “You aren’t even that special.”

Even though she tried not to, Juniper cried even harder.

“Now, now, girl,” said Neema. “You are pretty enough, but beauty isn’t everything a woman has to offer. If the Vasaath has chosen you for himself, then you are appealing to him, and that’s that, no matter what I think.”

The words soothed her some, but not entirely. “I thought there was more to it. I…” Her breath hitched. “I thought he felt something... different.”

Neema furrowed her brows, confused, and then her face softened. “Dear girl, the Vasaath is a symbol of power and prosperity. To be the object of his desires is an honour! But if you thought you could bring him to love you, then I am sorry, but you have been foolish to do so.”

“Yes. I have come to see that, myself.”

The woman sighed. “Well, you are a mainlander, after all.”

Juniper looked down on her lap, dried her tears, but said nothing.

“I suppose you are a maiden?” said Neema, and Juniper nodded. “Very well. You needn’t be afraid. Mating is an act of mutual understanding and respect. I know it is seldom so in your culture, but you are not his prize or his possession. It doesn’t matter if he is the Vasaath.” From inside her robes, she pulled out a leather pouch. “Here, I have oil and herbs. Oil to make it easier—do not brave it without it, you are a human and a maiden, so don’t be foolish—and herbs for making sure nothing will latch on. I believe he will take care, but accidents do happen.” She placed a bottle of golden oil on the table, and a bundle of herbs next to it. “Grind little more than a pinch in a teacup and seep it in hot water before you lie with him. The water will turn black, but don’t worry. This is Shadow Veil from Kasarath, and it will remove anything unwanted, but it is perfectly safe for you. Let it cool, but you must drink it no later than two hours after the deed.”

Juniper listened carefully, but was more and more uncertain. She had always been told there would be pain and blood, and that was the true indications of a maiden. Carefully, she asked if the woman had anything for that.

Neema laughed. “Oh, my dear girl! No!” She shook her head. “There should be no pain in this. If it is, he hasn’t tended to you properly. In that case, slap him.” Juniper was shocked, but Neema laughed again. She laughed a good while before she took a deep breath and said, “there could be some discomfort, but it should not last, and there will most certainly be soreness afterwards, of course, but don’t you worry about that. It will pass, but it might feel unusual and uncomfortable. Take a clean, cold cloth and press it to your core if the feeling is too bothersome. Now, if you _do_ experience pain during, you tell him to stop, immediately.”

A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind; her whole life, she had been told that a woman’s duty was to marry a man and birth him sons. She knew the procedure that would lead to conception, but she had never thought there were so many things to think about. All she had ever been told was that the woman was supposed to lie on her back, be silent, and _endure_ it, and then it would be over. Now, however, she had to think about oils and herbs and concoctions and cold cloths…

Neema then suddenly took Juniper’s hands in her own. “Remember: you are the master of yourself. Mating is useless if the soul is broken. You must be willing.”

Juniper nodded, entranced by the woman’s green eyes. There were suddenly a thousand questions she wanted to ask her, but the only thing she could think of to ask was, “what if I fail? What if I forget the drink, or doesn’t let it seep, or doesn’t let it cool enough, or drink it too late? If I forget the oil? What then?”

The woman smiled. “Use your common sense, girl. The brew can be made beforehand, and you will know if it will be needed; if you forget to drink, you come to me. The oil will surely come to mind if you find it too difficult to take him; the first time will be especially challenging.”

“What do you mean, _ta_ —oh…” Her cheeks burned and she wished the earth would swallow her whole. Surely, she had thought about the Vasaath’s body many times, but she had never dared to think about his, well, endowment. Of course, she thought, embarrassed, it would play a _vital_ part in the coming activities.

Neema only laughed at the girl’s terrified face, saying that there was nothing to be worried about. The Vasaath would be gentle and respectful, or he’d be shunned by his own. “I’d be grateful, if I were you,” said the _maasa_ then, “to lie with a man that isn’t poisoned by old, hateful tradition.”

Juniper only clenched her jaw and dropped her gaze. To say that the Vasaath wasn’t poisoned by tradition would be, in Juniper’s mind, a wrongful assumption. Every tradition was hateful in one way or another; perhaps the healer didn’t know all the details of the agreement.

* * *

**Translation** :

**Maasa** – _healer_  
 **Ohkas** – _stranger_ ; “not of Kas”; “not of the people”  
 **Ohkasenon** – foreign follower of the Kasenon; “follower of the faith of the people but not of the people”  
 **Vahanan** – _welcome_ ; “I receive you”


	33. The Open Cage: XXI

** XXI **

  
The men were fast workers—the marching Noxborough soldiers were certainly a good motivation to quickly finish suitable barricades. The Vasaath himself found peace of mind working autonomously with his hands. If he didn’t occupy himself, he was certain he would float away: the girl had accepted him. She had accepted his proposition. It was nearly too much for him to bear, such eagerness, but he contained himself. He saw that she was shocked, yes—indeed, in her culture, such a proposition was surely highly unusual—but she accepted nonetheless. Her _yes_ , although being quite breathless, still rang clear in his mind. He had wanted to kiss her then, but had refrained. He had been composed, proper, and sensible—he was quite proud of himself. But he could barely contain himself afterwards. The thought of her soft body quivering beneath him made him weak.

His work, however, was interrupted by Kasethen who seemed annoyed and slightly tense. “My lord,” said he, his voice strained. “A word, if you please?”

The Vasaath raised a brow, but nodded. “Very well.” Kasethen impatiently gestured the Vasaath to take the lead and walk away from the barricades, and the Vasaath obliged, although a little surprised—and suspicious. “I can tell you are bothered by something, my friend.”

“Forgive me, sir, if I speak out of terms,” Kasethen said, “but what exactly did you tell the girl?”

The Vasaath looked at him and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She is terrified.” Kasethen glared at the general. His eyes were hard and, if the Vasaath wasn’t mistaken, protective. “I have been your friend since we were children, my lord, and as your friend, I feel the need to tell you when you are being too direct and too insensitive.”

“Insensitive?” the Vasaath spat. “My proposition was very sensible.”

“Sensible, yes,” muttered Kasethen. “You need to focus and the girl is a distraction. It would be very sensible, indeed, to deal with that distraction. But that is _our_ way of thinking, sir, not _hers_.” He sighed deeply. “Physical relationships are not something women of these lands are free to experience outside of matrimony. Think of the strain you’re putting on her conscience!”

“They have their faith to thank for that,” the Vasaath muttered.

“But she is not to blame for it!” Kasethen huffed. He sighed again. “I could see in her eyes that she is terrified. She burst into tears, right in front of me.”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw. Mainland women were emotional and delicate, he knew that. There could be many reasons for her to cry. “She accepted. She said yes. Why would that cause her tears? Perhaps she’s overjoyed.”

Kasethen’s eyes hardened. “With all due respect, my lord, you have been giving commands for so long that an untrained ear couldn’t possibly tell the difference between an order and a request from you. And those were _not_ tears of joy, mind you!”

The Vasaath felt anger rising. “I wasn’t forceful,” he snapped. “I made no demands! I made a careful proposition, and the girl was reasonable enough to accept it. She could have said no, but she didn’t.”

Kasethen sighed. “Is there any way she might have thought of it as an order?”

“I was very clear in my proposition,” the Vasaath muttered. “I don’t think I could have been any clearer.”

Kasethen set his jaw tight. “If I were you, my lord, I would make sure the girl knew that my intentions were honourable and that I would never force her to do something she wasn’t comfortable with.”

“She knows that.”

“Does she? Are you certain?”

He glared at his advisor. He detested when he made him doubt himself, and detested even more when he challenged him. The girl had accepted. She had said yes, he had not demanded anything, and he would not be budged by Kasethen’s sensitivity. And yet… He wanted to stand firm, and not give in to the worry and the anxiety that his advisor brought him, but he was finally defeated and grunted discontentedly before striding past Kasethen and into the fort. He headed to her tent and stopped just outside the entrance to take a deep breath. So, he had to be sensitive, careful. He hated mainland decorum, but he cared about the girl, and he wouldn’t want her frightened or worried. He wouldn’t want her to feel pressured or forced. There was no honour in that. He took another deep breath, straightened, and walked in.

Surprisingly enough, he didn’t find her there alone. A _maasa_ was with her, and he felt sudden anger well up inside. “What are you doing here?” he barked at the woman who immediately rose and bowed to him.

“My lord,” said she. “Your advisor asked me to prepare the girl for what is to come. Had I known that you would mind, I would never—”

“Enough,” he muttered. “You will keep this to yourself. Now, leave.”

“Yes, sir.” The _maasa_ raised her head and looked him in the eye, and he suddenly felt ashamed—there was no honour in being angry with the _ohkasenon_ , either. She was only being kind.

He cleared his throat, nodded back in respect, and said, “healer.”

“Leader.”

The _maasa_ then left, and the Vasaath tried to calm himself. He looked at the girl, and he could see in her pale face that she was indeed terrified. Her eyes were reddened, tears still fresh upon her cheeks. He clenched his jaw, unsure what to do next. “You have been crying.”

She quickly looked away and put her hands to her cheeks, but she said nothing.

The Vasaath slowly sat down next to her, choosing his words carefully. “I...” he started, but grunted in frustration. “Within the Kasenon, we are open and honest to one another, but I realise now such openness could be seen as bluntness to others.” He sighed, tightened his jaw, and turned to her. “Juniper, please… I would not wish you to be sorrowful, and especially not if I caused the sadness.” He gently grabbed her chin and yanked it upwards. Her lips were red against her pale skin, and he tenderly let his thumb caress her. “Tell me, is it so?”

She looked at him, her silver eyes dulled with pain. She swallowed. “It’s not what I imagined, but I know it is a small price to pay. I’ll recover soon enough.”

He narrowed his eyes, confused. “Price to pay? For what?”

At once, the girl seemed perplexed. “For staying here.” She looked down. “You said my stay had become bothersome for you. I do not wish to be a burden. If this is the condition that needs to be met if I am to stay, then so be it.”

He was ready to rebuke her, to tell her that he hadn’t said anything of the sort, but he refrained. He _did_ say that her stay had become bothersome for him—indeed, it had. His desires had become unbearable, and his needs, demanding. He wanted her so much, he could barely think properly—but he would never expel her if she denied him! His troubles were his to bear. He caressed her lips, tenderly, wistfully, his eyes drawn to their fullness. His heart raced, his breath quickened, and he leaned closer. “No…” he whispered. “There are no conditions. I wouldn’t wish you to leave, no matter what answer you give me. You could hate me, for all I care. I would still not turn you away.” Life returned to her face by his touch, and she looked at him again. She wet her lips, and as he touched the moisture, he felt an overpowering urge to kiss her. No, he thought. He wouldn’t pressure her. So he leaned back, released her, and sighed. “I realise that my addresses might have been too… well, insensitive.” He grunted. “Perhaps Kasethen was right, and I give too many orders.” Shaking his head, he said, “I did not mean to demand anything of you, Juniper. You have no obligation to indulge me.” He clenched his jaw. “I wouldn’t want you to think that. Why would you think that?”

She brought her hands together, looked down on her lap, and said quietly, “my father once told me that powerful men get what they want—anything they want.”

Her words were drenched with sorrow, and he sighed deeply. “And you think me powerful enough to demand such a thing.”

“Are you not?” she asked bitterly.

“I am,” he admitted. Yes, indeed he was. That he would never do such a thing was beside the point. The girl couldn’t possibly trust his honour—she had no experience of true honour, only of deceit. “But I would never hurt you like that. I swear it.” Defeated, he said, “I suppose your answer will be different now that you know I wouldn’t turn you away if you declined.”

The girl frowned. “I’m not certain.”

He had been convinced that she would nod and agree, and he had been prepared for it, but when she didn’t, at least not immediately, he dared to hope again. “So I haven’t imagined the tension between us?”

Her cheeks flushed violently, and she shook her head.

“Then what is making you uncertain?”

Even her ears turned red as she shot down her gaze. “I…” She swallowed. “I thought there might be something more between us than lust.” She smiled nervously and shook her head. “I know that was foolish of me, indeed, and that it was only silly dreams that—”

He couldn’t restrain himself any longer. Leaning in, he pressed his lips against hers. He was relieved and thrilled to find her responsive and willing, albeit shocked. He pulled her to him, onto his lap, and kissed her passionately. He tried to explain everything he couldn’t express in words with his kiss; he tried not to be forceful, or demanding, but he wanted her to understand that he held far deeper sentiments for her than she had anticipated. Indeed, he had never felt such feelings towards anyone before her. Once, he might have denied it to himself, but he couldn’t any longer. He kissed her deeply, longingly, and tasted her sweetness with satisfaction. He touched her hair, held her tightly, and claimed her lips with intent.

When they broke apart, she sighed and leaned against his chest, and he rested his cheek against her hair. “There is more than lust, Juniper,” he said to her. “Please, do not doubt it.”

She was silent for a moment, but then she sighed again and pressed herself closer, melting into him.

He held her for a long time, and she curled up against him like a cat on his lap. They kissed now and then, and just revelled in each other’s arms. They didn’t speak until they had to, and the Vasaath told her that she did not have to answer his request until she felt ready to do so. His wishes would remain unchanged, but he would be content if she would only let him kiss her and hold her, like now.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” he asked her. “Only to sleep, of course. I missed you.”

She chuckled. “It has only been one night! I am sure this will go very poorly if we can’t be apart for a single night!”

“I have spent all my other nights without you,” said the Vasaath, and thought to himself that he would have to spend a great many more nights without her once she had converted and become _ohkasethen_. “Why would I want to spend another one like so?”

She shifted in his embrace, straightened, and smiled. “I’ll stay, if you promise to be proper.”

He chuckled. “You have my word, my lady.”

She kissed him then, a light peck, and before he had the chance of catching her lips, she rose. “There is still daylight left,” said she. “We better make use of it.”

“And what will you do?” he asked and rose.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Do you have any tasks for me?”

“Not anything that you would happily do,” he said and sighed. “I don’t expect you to gladly share your knowledge of the city and Fairgarden.”

The girl bit her lip and looked down. “I would do anything to prevent violence, sir, but if you want my help for your plan of attack, then no, I would rather not lend my knowledge for that.”

He nodded. “I respect that.”

“Well,” she sighed, “if you have no tasks for me, then I shall withdraw to a book.”

The Vasaath nodded. “Very well.” He was just about to leave when he saw the flask and the herbs on the table. Dread suddenly grabbed hold of him, and his heart raced painfully. He tightened his jaw. “I must have you know,” he started, but grunted. The mere notion that he would have to persuade her that she wouldn’t be used and forced was maddening—the thought of it made him quite uneasy. That she would have to presume that her only purpose was to please men, made him furious. He sighed again. “I do want you, Juniper. Very much. Sometimes, I want you so much I can barely contain myself. It is bothersome, yes, and I find it hard to think about much else. That is indeed a problem I must solve, that much is true, but it is _my_ ailment. You must understand…” He huffed, and tightened his fists. “I have the deepest respect for you, and you have no obligation to relieve me of my troubles. You have just as much say in this business of ours, as I do.” Clenching his jaw, he muttered, “no, you have more.”

The girl wrung her hands together, but said nothing.

The Vasaath frowned, nodded, and left the tent. He knew not if he had taken a step backwards, or a step forwards; the girl was his, and she was not. 

* * *


	34. The Open Cage: XXII

** XXII **

  
Her heart was bursting. She could barely do much else than think about the general’s kiss, his touch, his voice… indeed, she could not deny her ardent feelings towards him, and to know that he too felt deeply for her was more happiness than she could bear. All she could hear was him telling her how much he wanted her, how much he _lusted_ for her—how much he respected her—and it made every hair on her body stand. Only hours before, she had felt heartbroken thinking that she was worth nothing to him if she wasn’t lying flat on her back, but now, she felt as though she was the princess in all those fairytales, and he was the knight.

Time moved excruciatingly slowly, and when she finally could see him again at supper, she had made sure that she looked as beautiful as she possibly could. Her reward for such efforts was found in his intense gaze, and the longer into the night they spent conversing, the closer they moved. They ended the evening drinking tea together by his reading nook, where their lips met longingly.

When the hour had come to turn to bed, and the Vasaath had suggested it, Juniper was surprised by sudden fear and anxiety—the confidence and giddiness from only hours before were gone. In that moment, she realised that a bed symbolised more than just sleep; it was the place where a husband took his wife for their wedding night, and it was where a woman was to fulfil her duty and purpose. A memory from her childhood sprung to mind, when Juniper had gone to her mother’s bed at night because she had had a terrible dream; her mother had invited her to curl up next to her, and held her daughter in her loving embrace—moments later, the door had opened, and Juniper’s father had come stumbling in, reeking of spirits. He had torn the girl from her mother’s arms, spat at her to return to her own room before he could slap her, and then he had crawled on top of her mother despite the woman’s anguished pleadings. Juniper had rushed out, but not before she had heard her mother’s cries in the dark hallways of the castle.

Why that awful memory had made itself known at that moment was unbeknownst to her—she had slept next to the Vasaath before, and she had always felt safe. Indeed, she had felt safer with him than anywhere else. Why was this night any different? But she went with him to the inner chamber, stripped to her shift, and crawled under the furs. She was troubled, and felt strangely uncomfortable as the Vasaath took his place next to her. She tried not to show it, but when she let out an involuntary gasp as he laid his arm around her, he quickly removed it and asked her if anything was wrong.

“You’re tense,” he noticed. “This is unusual.”

Trying to clear her mind, she said, “I just had a bad memory, that’s all.”

“What about?” he asked her softly.

Juniper was silent for a moment, wondering whether or not to tell him. Then, she sighed, “about my mother.”

He hummed. “What was her name?”

“Eleanor,” whispered Juniper. “She died of illness when I was still a child.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “You must have loved her.”

“I did.” She turned to face him. “She was my guidance. When she passed, I had no one.”

His golden eyes observed her carefully, and a line had formed between his furrowed brows. “You had no teacher?”

“I had a governess,” said Juniper, but shuddered at the thought of that hateful woman. “She despised me, as I her. She would whip me with a stick if I ever did anything unladylike. She was mindful not to leave bruises, of course—I had to look pristine.”

“You beat your children?” he huffed. “And you call _us_ savages.”

Juniper smiled half-heartedly. “I wouldn’t say it’s common practice, but I would lie if I said I think it’s _uncommon_. Parents often think that is the best way to teach children respect.”

“So you teach your children that fear and respect are equal,” he concluded, then he grunted. “I can see how that has moulded you into the people you are.”

Juniper sighed. “When my mother was alive, there was only love. She taught me a great deal, you know, about life. About what to expect. I was so young then, and did not understand her, but I do now.” She huffed. “She told me to keep my heart guarded. Even though I would be married to a wealthy lord and birth him sons, I would find no love in the match. I would love his children, but I would never love him. And neither would he love me.”

“That is grim for a people I thought believed in romance,” muttered the Vasaath, and he lightly let his fingers brush her arm.

A shiver ran through her, and her skin prickled at his gentle touch. “I think my mother did, once. But I suppose the years hardened her heart.” She sighed. “She suffered at my father hands, I know she did.” A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. “I wonder what my mother would have had said about you.”

“Something reasonable, I hope,” he chuckled.

She smiled and gently traced one of the markings on his chest with her fingers. “Either she’d tell me to run as far away from the likes of you as I possibly can, lest I’d be dragged into a life of sin… or she would tell me to savour this moment, and take this chance of being with someone who cared for me, for I would never have it again.”

“I see now where you got your wisdom,” said the general and placed a strand of her hair behind her ear, “but your mother and I have very different views on sin.” He carefully lifted her chin and brushed his lips against hers. “Is this sinful to you?”

Juniper’s heart raced, her cheeks flushed, and her breath quickened. “We… we’ve only kissed.”

“And more than that?” He slowly grazed her skin with his claws, down her neck to her collarbone and up her shoulder. “Would that be sinful?”

Violent shivers ran down her spine, and every hair stood at its end. “I…” she breathed against him. “The Architects say—”

“I don’t care about the Architects.” His voice was rough as his hand landed in the small of her back, pulling her closer. “What do _you_ think?”

His breath was hot against her lips, his hand was steady on her back, and she felt her body tremble; her mouth watered, her blood boiled, and her mind hazed. There they were, alone together in his bedchamber. She knew he wanted her, and she had never felt anything like this before. How then, she thought, could it be wrong? His eyes were dim and dark, and low rumblings escaped his depth. She imagined him pulling her underneath his massive build, and imagined his lips all over her body. The thought was only fleeting, and yet, it made her feel… extraordinary—terrified. When he took her lips with his, hungrily and intently, she instinctively pushed him away, overwhelmed by her own strange feelings and desires.

The Vasaath clenched his jaw and grunted. “Forgive me.”

Juniper knew not what to say. She was ashamed by the heat in her body, by the thoughts in her head, so she only nodded. “We should sleep.” The Vasaath agreed and allowed her to turn around, and when she had her back against him, she exhaled deeply. She knew she would get no sleep that night.

She did, however, and in her dreams, he undressed her, and touched her, and kissed her—but she woke up before they could be joined. She was relieved and disappointed, all at once, and she didn’t know whether to be pleased or ashamed. The Vasaath was still asleep, breathing heavily next to her, but Juniper could not will herself to go back to sleep. It was morning, and soon enough the camp would awaken. She felt restless and could not stay in bed. Carefully, she slipped out and dressed. She gave the Vasaath a quick look as he lay sleeping with his arms and legs sprawled across the bed, and she smiled. Indeed, he wasn’t as frightening and awe-striking when he was sleeping like a child.

Juniper took her tea out on the battlements, in the morning sun, with the sea breeze in her face. When she closed her eyes, images from her dream flashed before her. A smile stretched over her lips, and she hoped no one would see. It was hers, as was that small intimate moment. That morning, no thoughts of war or horror tormented her, and she found that her shoulders had been relieved from a weight she didn’t know she had. Perhaps it was the clouds she was still soaring in, or perhaps it was the sensation of feeling loved—perhaps for the first time—that clouded her mind, but she could not allow herself to think about war and invasion and her brother and her father…

“I thought you had abandoned me.” The Vasaath joined her by the battlements, when her tea was long finished.

“No,” she smiled. “I just like the view.” She sighed. “I’ve always loved the sea. I can see it from my room in Fairgarden, but it’s always so far away.”

“In our capital,” said the Vasaath and leaned over the stone next to her, “the white-washed stone façades reflect the clear blue water of the bay. Everyone can see the waves when the sunlight hits the water, no matter which way their windows face.”

“That sounds beautiful,” said she.

“At summer, the sun hardly sets. It just rests above the horizon, setting the city on fire, before it rises again. At winter, it’s always dark, but the light giants wander across the heavens every night, letting us bask in their glory.”

She looked at him. “That must be magical. I wish I could see it.”

“One day, you will,” said the Vasaath.

She smiled half-heartedly. The thought of ever leaving Noxborough was bittersweet—all her life, she had dreamt of it. When she was still in her teenage years, going somewhere as exotic as Kasarath would be like a dream come true. Now, when that journey seemed inevitable, she felt a strange sense of sentiment towards Noxborough. Poor Noxborough—soon, its people would be curbed by the Kasenon, and she wasn’t sure even the Builder knew what would become of it. But no—she wouldn’t think of it. Not now, not today.

“I will take you out in the darkest of nights and let you see the magic for yourself,” said the Vasaath.

She liked the sound of it, but gave him a coy smile. “Unchaperoned? Wouldn’t that be rather improper, sir?”

He narrowed his eyes before smirking. “Perhaps. Would you mind?”

She saw that his eyes were drawn to her lips, and she couldn’t help but to wish for him. He leaned in, just a little, and she parted her lips, just a little—but she composed herself and took a step back. “I think I might visit the Kamani today,” she said. “Just to make sure they’re content and have what they need.”

He straightened, and his countenance hardened. “You are a good hostess.”

She brought her hands together. “I’m not their hostess.”

“You know as well as I,” said he, “that without you, they would be dead by now. They should kiss your feet.”

Juniper sighed. “Without me, they would still have their homes and their loved ones.”

The Vasaath gently grabbed her hand, looked her deep in the eyes, and said, “that is not your fault, Juniper. You didn’t do that.” He clenched his jaw. “That happened because your father thinks he owns you, and because he wants to sell you—like cattle.”

She bit her lip. She didn’t want to think of that today, in the sunshine. Shaking her head, she smiled. “It doesn’t matter. That will never happen.”

“No,” said he, “it will not.” He kissed her hand, bowed, and then excused himself. He had to help with the barricades, and said that they might very well be finished today—and not a day too soon. It didn’t matter how much she tried to suppress the inevitable: war was coming to Noxborough.

* * *


	35. The Demons of the North: I

** I **

  
The soldiers from Westbridge were all stationed just south of the Three Crossings. The camp was big and muddy, and the soldiers were impatient and restless. Lord Richmond Arlington had arrived that morning, together with his son and the Cornwalls. They had travelled as soon as Lord Sebastian had returned from the dreadful fiasco that was the attack on the invaders—indeed, the mission was to destroy the invaders and bring back Richmond’s daughter, but his son had retreated with his tail between his legs and brought the news that Lady Juniper had gone there of her own volition, and that she had chosen to stay with the beast-men instead of doing her duty and marrying Lord Cornwall’s son.

Richmond knew this to be true; his daughter was a spiteful girl who always found ways of dishonouring her poor father, but this might have been her greatest betrayal as of yet. Of course, Richmond did not share this truth with Lord Cornwall; in fact, he told the Duke of Westbridge that his soon-to-be daughter-in-law had been kidnapped and was held hostage by the evil demons. Lord Cornwall, being the pious man that he was, had acted accordingly, and their plan of attack was now in the makings.

After discussing some of the finer details, Richmond and his son had withdrawn to Richmond’s tent to discuss the matter further.

“Look at this,” said the older man and gestured the scene. “This is what an army should look like. Metal armour, broadswords, and fine, well-bred men ready to fight for their race.”

Sebastian was silent—strangely so.

“Are you not impressed by this, my son?”

The young man sighed. “Father, I saw what they did to Sir Bolton! That wasn’t a fight, it was a slaughter! And that wasn’t even one of their officers.”

“As far as you know.” Richmond sighed impatiently. “Sebastian, do you know how many soldiers there are here?”

“Five thousand.”

“Yes, five thousand.” Richmond shifted in his seat. “Plus our City Guard. That’s more than six thousand fighting men. And how many soldiers did the Grey Ones have?”

“I don’t know,” Sebastian muttered. “But there were more than a hundred. Double, at least.”

“Two hundred, then.” Richmond smirked. “It doesn’t matter. They may be larger and stronger than us, and they might kill a great number of our men, but they are savages. They lack the refinement of true knights. They will realise their defeat once they see the strength of our forces, and leave our shores!”

Sebastian, however, did not seem convinced. “I spoke with their leader, Father. They are indeed savages, but they are murderous savages. You should have heard him speak of battle, as though he _liked_ it. Those monsters are bred to kill—it doesn’t matter how many we are if we’re fighting the demons from our darkest childhood nightmares!”

Richmond rolled his eyes. He knew his son had a faint heart, but this was more than he could bear. “My son, they are horrible beasts, yes, but they are killable. Six thousand men will stand against them, to protect their homes, their families, and their faith.”

“But that’s just it!” Sebastian then spat. “Lord Cornwall’s men aren’t even from the Free Cities! They are sell-swords, they have no loyalties. They can go back to Illyria anytime they want, and why would they face such monsters to protect _us_? Who would stop them from leaving? Lord Cornwall? You?”

“They will stay where the money is, and since Illyria has the Golden Army, no one needs sell-swords there.”

“They will stay as long as there is money,” Sebastian nodded, “but war is expensive. The last war ended because it bankrupted every Free City in Nornest!”

“That was hundreds of years ago—”

“And we still haven’t recovered from it!”

“I have sent word to the other four cities as well,” said Richmond and sighed. “The beasts won’t stop with Noxborough. We need to stand united against them.”

Sebastian huffed. “Ravensgate and Riverport have been fighting for generations. They would never stand on the same side of anything, and neither Kingshaven nor Eastshore have any armies to speak of. Kingshaven only has taverns, brothels, and markets, and Eastshore is nothing short of a ghost town, for Builder’s sake!”

Richmond gritted his teeth. “And what is your suggestion, then? Bow down to the heathens?”

Sebastian paced the tent. “We should send word to the Emperor.”

The old man croaked a laugh. “The Emperor? That is your great plan? _Beg_? To that ridiculous excuse of a ruler? Yes, that’s a great plan! Let him kill them with wine and pillow biting!”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter, Father! If he commands the greatest army in the Edredian World, he can drink as much wine and fuck as many boys he wants for all I care!”

“I will _not_ kiss that bastard’s feet!” Richmond barked. “He is just as much of a heathen as the beasts are!”

“We need their support in this,” Sebastian growled. “Let’s say we defeat them. Good. Great, even. We might lose half our forces, but that doesn’t matter, because the invaders have been defeated.” Richmond liked the sound of that, but Sebastian wasn’t finished. “But do you really think two hundred men are all they have? Of course not! They’re _invaders_ , Father! They’ve ravished Tallis the Western Isles for hundreds of years! Do you think they could do that with just _two hundred_ soldiers?” He snorted. “I’m not even sure the _Builder_ knows how many more warriors they have on that wretched island of theirs, but when they retaliate, they will come in full force. By then, we will only have half our men, and we will be slaughtered.” He took a deep breath. “Unless we have the Golden Army on our side.”

Richmond was getting tired of this. “Well, aren’t you the war expert? You think Illyria cares? They didn’t give a shit about us during the War of the Kings, so why should they give a shit about us now?”

“That was hundreds of years ago! Why would they care about some wretched farmers fighting each other in the north?” Sebastian spat. “They’re _Illyria_ , for Builder’s sake! Valaris is the Golden City, the Holy City of Edred. They didn’t _need_ to care about our civil war. But I do think they would care if a whole army of invaders stood at their doorstep, then as well as now.”

“Valaris hasn’t been taken for a thousand years,” Richmond muttered. “The Emperor won’t care.”

“You’re just an old fool,” Sebastian spat. “Juniper would agree that we should write to the Emperor.”

“Do not utter that bitch’s name in my presence,” Richmond growled and pointed at his son.

“She’s your daughter,” Sebastian said. “She’s _your_ daughter, and you drove her away.”

“Shut up!” Richmond flung from his chair. His head was pounding with pressure and annoyance, and he glared harshly at his son. “She was taken, and that’s that.”

“She wasn’t!” Sebastian rose, as well. “She went there on her own accord, and you know it.”

In a fit of rage, Richmond slapped his son straight across the face. The boy gasped, but Richmond growled in his face, “I will hear none of that, and you won’t speak of it ever again. Do you hear me? The last thing we need is Cornwall thinking that Juniper has gone to spread her legs to the beasts willingly. She has been _taken_ and is waiting in earnest for that little shit Lord Christopher to come to rescue her so that they can marry, have sons, and join our houses.”

Sebastian looked at his father in surprise, with tears in his eyes, but said nothing.

“Get out of my sight, you sissy,” Richmond muttered and gestured at him dismissingly. “Your bitch of a sister has bigger balls than you.” While his son stomped out of the tent, Richmond sat down again, now with a blasting headache. He had heard the guards speak of the dreadful scene that had played out down by the harbour that day, when Sir Bolton was cut down by a Grey One. He had been their finest knight, trained in Illyria, and a veteran champion in the yearly tournaments for almost ten years—but he stood no chance against the lithe and quick Grey One. Indeed, it was unfathomable that they would lose a battle with such odds, but the men had been disheartened by the display, and nothing was more devastating than bad morale.

* * *


	36. The Demons of the North: II

** II **

  
Juniper was pleased to find that the Kamani had settled in rather nicely with the other _ohkasenon_ and the converters. They had even built their own shelters and did their share of chores wherever it was needed. They greeted Juniper with open arms and made her feel welcome. She had felt hatred from many other converters, but the Kamani showed her nothing but kindness.

When heading back in the afternoon, she spotted a Kas warrior walking away from one of the tents, and she could spy Neema in the entrance. The _maasa_ saw her as well, smiled, and motioned her to come to her. Juniper did, reluctantly, and soon found herself in the _maasa’s_ tent. It was rather large and smelled of incense and herbs, and from the beams in the ceiling hung bundles upon bundles of dried herbs. The floor was covered with soft rugs, in the middle stood a burning brazier, a wooden cot and a small table, and on the far side of the tent, the floor was covered with furs and pillows. In the back, the tent was divided into rooms, just as in the Vasaath’s and her own, and just beside the entrance stood a low table with a few cushions around it. It was rather snug, welcoming, and calming.

“Please,” said the woman, “have a seat.”

Juniper smiled and lowered herself onto one of the cushions. Neema offered some tea, and Juniper accepted.

When the _maasa_ sat down by the table, she said, “how are you feeling today? Any ache? Soreness?”

Juniper felt the blood rush to her face. “No, we never… well, I am still a maiden.”

Neema frowned. “Oh? That’s singular.”

“How come?”

“Well, Kasethen gave me the impression that the business was rather urgent,” said Neema.

Juniper swallowed and looked down into her cup. “I don’t know about the… _urgency_ of it, but… we have kissed, but we have not lain together.”

“You have kissed?” Neema asked. “On the lips?”

Confused, Juniper nodded. “Yes.”

“And he allowed it?”

Juniper pulled her brows together. “Well, he certainly hasn’t objected.” Moving her hair behind her year, she murmured, “quite the opposite, actually…”

Neema seemed surprised. “And yet, you haven’t mated?”

Juniper mumbled over her teacup, “no.”

Neema hummed, had a sip of her tea, and asked, “why?”

Puzzled, Juniper looked up and asked, “whatever do you mean?”

“Why haven’t you been intimate?” Neema said. “Are you not attracted to the man? Is he an ill match?”

“No, not at all,” mumbled Juniper, her cheeks scarlet. “And yes, he is very handsome, but I don’t understand. What has that got to do with anything?”

Neema seemed quite perplexed. “My lady, does he not stir your _desire_?”

Juniper felt the heat in her face intensify. She felt rather uncomfortable and shifted in her seat. “I believe _that_ is a very private matter.”

The _maasa_ furrowed her brows tighter. “Such feelings are natural. You shouldn’t fear them. You should indulge them. Set them free, and you’ll be free.”

Juniper felt utterly uncomfortable now, and wondered if she could conjure up an excuse to leave.

“Do you indulge yourself, Juniper? Do you allow yourself such release, by yourself?” the _maasa_ then asked, making Juniper’s ears warm.

She huffed. “I dare say, you are quite intrusive!”

Neema remained calm. “I only wish to help you. I can see the suffering in you—it is the same in most _ladies_ : shame. They deny themselves the purest of pleasures, just because it’s not befitting for a lady to have such sensations.” The _maasa_ sighed. “Well, if you ask me, it’s just a rouse by the men to control the women around them.” She leaned over the table, with a glint in her eye, and said, “because who knows what horrifying powers a woman could be capable of if she was allowed the same satisfaction as men?”

Feeling quite embarrassed, Juniper said nothing.

Neema snickered, took a sip from her tea, and said, “but in all seriousness: if the Vasaath is not man enough to awaken your loins, I doubt any man is. Perhaps it requires a woman.” She sighed. “Or, something else. You told me you thought he held deeper feelings for you—is that the issue? If so, it is perfectly fine. Some require deeper connections in order to feel physical desire.”

“I don’t think—” Juniper clenched her jaw and sighed.

“But I must have you know,” Neema continued, “a kiss means something very different to Kas than to you mainlanders. That is the deepest gesture we can make to prove our love and devotion to an individual.” She eyed her. “If he has kissed you, Juniper, you must be _very_ special to him.”

Juniper’s heart stopped. A kiss? How could such an innocent and modest gesture mean such a great deal for such strong and assertive warriors? When he told her that there was more than lust between them, how much more did he mean? His kisses had been deep, wanting, urging… She drew a ragged breath. “I do feel… desire. For him. But I…” Her eyes were suddenly brimmed with tears, and she was surprised by her own reaction. She quickly dried them away and said, “I can’t. It’s wrong. I’d be damned.”

Neema gently reached to touch her hand. “Why?”

Juniper shook her head. “I’d be ruined. No one would want me. I’d be worthless.” Then she huffed, dried more tears, and said, “not to mention I’d be dooming myself to an eternity in the Netherworlds.”

“My lady,” said Neema softly, “the Architects have chained our sex to follow silly rules written by men so that they can hold on to the fragile power they think they have. But the words of Edred aren’t words of chains. They are words of love. You won’t be damned because you allow yourself pleasure—on the contrary! It’s an act of self-love and celebration! Did Edred ever marry? No! But he still took lovers, and he stepped beyond the Void without any scruples, as did his lovers!”

Juniper stared at the woman. “You’re Edredian…”

Neema snickered. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes… the—the Kasenon—”

“The Kasenon is a philosophy, not a faith,” said Neema. “No one has the right to decide what people believe in, as long as they put the Kasenon first.”

Juniper could scarcely believe it: there, right in front of her, was an Edredian _ohkasenon_ , a woman, who felt no shame in indulging in such sinful activities. She thought about it for a moment, about what she had said of words of love and words of chains… she knew her own interpretation of the Structure was very different from the Architects and their strict and pious rules—and what she had felt the night before, those delightful feelings she dreaded so, couldn’t possibly be wrong, could they? If they were, why would the Builder allow them? In her head, she heard her father’s mean words, the Architects’ harsh judgments, and the cruel comments from the townsfolk—she was a woman, inferior, and should know her place. But deep inside, she also heard her mother’s voice, telling her to guard her heart, otherwise, it would break. Juniper then wondered, if she gave her heart to the Vasaath, a man who did not look at her as inferior at all, would he guard it with the same ferocity as he guarded his own? If the answer was yes, then there should be no doubt that he was the man she belonged to, and who belonged to her. That would be a bond even stronger than marriage. She dried her tears, smiled, and thanked the woman for her sound advice.

That evening, she kept thinking about the conversation she had had with the _maasa_ ; about the words of Edred and her own, bodily liberation. All the things kept swirling in her head, back and forth like a storm. She knew not what to make of all the conflicting thoughts inside of her—she wanted to be as free and as untethered from the Architects’ judgment as Neema, but how could she after spending her whole life living by the rules so religiously? She could not ignore her fears of becoming unworthy, impure, tainted... she didn’t want to believe that the Builder would punish her for loving a man that could not make her his wife. She did not wish to believe that the Builder would punish her for being with a person who respected her, cared about her, and revered her—but the fear was real, tangible.

Once they had gone to bed that night, she had trouble sleeping. When the Vasaath kissed her, she made sure to truly feel—could she sense something rare in him? Did it feel as special as Neema said it was? She thought she felt it, but she was unsure. Was it only her romantic heart? The general fell asleep with his arm around her, and she listened to his heavy breaths. Her mind was too occupied for sleep, and she kept thinking, kept feeling. The butterflies in her belly whenever the Vasaath looked at her, the heat in her whenever he touched her, and the calmness in her whenever he held her, were all signs that he was the one she had waited for all her life. She was sure of it.

When morning arrived, she had yet to have one ounce of sleep. The Vasaath rose, kissed her lovingly, and left for his duties. Juniper’s mind was still in disarray, she was exhausted, and she withdrew to her tent for some rest, in her own space, away from his intoxicating scent. Sleep was sweet, blissful, and she dreamed of the general’s golden eyes. They exuded warmth, security, and in her dream, she was certain she could see her future in them.

When she woke up sometime later, she felt sure of her own feelings and wishes—he had given her all he could to express his love, and so she would do the same. Determined, she rose to make the brew Neema had told her to. She had heard of similar concoctions from the chambermaids’ and the kitchen maids’ whisperings, of how they prevented conception, and she knew that no matter how the coming night would end, a child, while not necessarily unwanted, would be unwelcomed in such dire times.

The brew quickly blackened, and Juniper felt nervousness creep upon her. While she was certain that she had made the right decision, that her heart knew what her mind would not confess, fear still roamed within her. What if she was a disappointment? What if the Vasaath realised that the physical attraction was more important than any connection their hearts might have made? She was certainly no Neema, and her inexperience was as dooming as her meekness. He had, however, said that he wanted her very much, that he sometimes wanted her so much he could barely think about anything else. She knew very little of the wants of men, but that must be a good sign.

She paced back and forth for most of the remaining day, until the sun was low enough. The brew had cooled, so she put the flask of oil into the bodice of her gown and grabbed her teapot. Her hands were shaking, as were her legs, but she would not back down. She told herself to be strong, that she was in control, and that she had nothing to fear. As she walked across the courtyard, her legs were still trembling. When she entered his tent, and she saw him pouring himself a glass of wine, she nearly turned on her heels, but remained.

He looked at her, smiled, and welcomed her. He hadn’t seen her the whole day, but he said that he had longed for her. His eyes then fell on the teapot in her hand, and he furrowed his brows. “Why did you bring your own? I have one h—”

“No!” she quickly said, perhaps a bit too urgently. When he looked at her with suspicion, she swallowed and said, “this is special. For me.”

He narrowed his eyes, took a step towards her, and said, “special how? Are you ill? Are you in pain?”

Sighing, she put the pot down onto the table. “No, I’m perfectly well. Famished, though.”

He nodded. “Of course. We will eat. But first…” He pulled her to him, a crooked smile on his lips, as he gently cupped her face. “I have wanted to do this all day.” He kissed her then, and her heart fluttered. Her decision felt even more right. When they broke away, he told her of how they had finished fortifying the harbour and how Noxborough had no other chance but to rely on trade routes on land. They continued their conversation throughout supper, but Juniper could barely eat. She was too nervous for that, and the Vasaath was as perceptive as ever. He commented on her poor appetite, told her that she should eat, and asked her if she truly wasn’t ill. She assured him that she was not. He didn’t press it any further and when the dark had fallen, her nervousness had almost reached its limit. She had been debating with herself all evening whether she should just tell him that she wanted him to make love to her, or if she should abandon this ludicrous fancy and simply let it be. If anything, she thought, she needed a glass of wine to calm her nerves.

As she stood by the table where he had his jug, she suddenly heard him mutter darkly, “this is Shadow Veil.”

She gasped and turned, and watched how he held her teapot in his hands. She could barely breathe and tried to find something clever to say. She rambled, but nothing made sense. The Vasaath stood and slowly walked towards her.

“Does this mean you have decided?” he asked, his eyes scorching her.

Juniper swallowed, and her legs were trembling again. “I… I…” The words simply wouldn’t come out, so she just nodded.

“And your answer remains the same?” he asked, his voice rough and eager as he slowly closed the distance between them.

Again, all she could do was nod.

His eyes dimmed then, clouded, as he looked down upon her, and the hunger in them made her heart race and her mind wander. “Are you certain?” he asked.

It was barely a nod at all, she knew that, but she nodded. She backed into the table as he walked even closer—his stature was truly monumental; broad and strong with beautiful, terrifying, musculature moving graciously beneath the ashen skin. A fleeting thought in her head told her that she was mad to allow such a man to be intimate with her. She could see the strain in his jaw as he clenched it hard. She croaked, “I—I might be a disappointment to you…”

“No,” he breathed softly and gently pulled her to him. “You won’t be. I know it.”

He kissed her, and she could taste the desire upon his lips—or was it her own? As he led her into the bedchamber, her mind was hazy, sunken in dreams and desire she hadn’t dared herself to have before. He kissed her again, more urgent now, and she was unravelled in his arms. There was still some fear, spreading like ice in her chest, as he tugged at the lace in the back. The small flask of oil fell to the floor, but did not break. He picked it up, looked at it with a ponder on his brow, before he resumed tugging at her lacing. She felt shy when he undressed her, for she had never been exposed to a man like this before. But he did not look at her naked body as though she was a prey or a thing—as men often did even with her dresses on. Neither did he seem disappointed with her. He revered her, admired her, as his golden eyes slowly and thoroughly traced her form. Carefully, he touched her, in ways no man had ever touched her before, and she gasped.

“You could never disappoint me,” he breathed into her ear, and she sought his lips in earnest.

When he lowered her onto the bed, she felt almost numb. She could barely breathe. The sensation was almost too much. His frame encased her, and all she could see was him, the lethal muscles straining powerfully underneath his skin. She felt so small, so insecure. She was a novice, inexperienced, and he... was not. Her breath was rough, her limbs were trembling. All her life, she had been taught by men that she was to perform this act, and by women that she was to fear it; she had been taught that she was to oblige and do her duty, but only to her husband and her owner. This man was neither. His burning gaze locked onto hers, and he hesitated. He must have seen her insecurity, but she kissed him assertively, defeating the fright completely. No, this man was certainly not one of those men she had been taught by women to fear—he was the sort of man she had been taught by _other_ men to fear.

Despite his disposition, he was tender and attentive—his touch, meticulous and studied. He used the oil to warm her and to help her relax, and the scent was sweet and spicy. No matter how much she writhed underneath him, affected so by his burning hands, and lips, and tongue, he remained slow, tantalising, and rewarding. She dared to touch him, to feel his magnificence under her fingertips, and she was pleased to find that her touch caused him to tremble as well. That she could affect him, at least a fraction of how he affected her, was a reward in itself. He spurred her senses to no end, and awakened sensations inside her she did not know anyone could conjure. Out of the few things she had heard about the act, this was far from it. The more he touched her, and the more she touched him, the more demanding their want became. Eventually, he let go of control and caution, she let go of insecurities and doubt, and finally, they were joined. The oil eased the resistance and aided her through the initial discomfort, and he was slow and gentle, letting her accommodate him in her own pace. He was well endowed, impressive, but there was no pain, as she had always heard there would be. There was no fear, as she had always feared there would be. No pain, no fear—only pleasure, comfort, and love.

The two of them melted into one; one mind, one soul, one body. His massive build was no longer an object of worry, but _him_. Her inexperience was no longer an object of shame, but of no importance. Although the intensity of their love-making fluctuated, the passion never faltered. At times, they just held each other, while other times, they drove each other mad with want. When they finally had exhausted themselves and each other, the two bodies slumped together against the bedding, spent and satisfied. She lay in his arms, listening to his heavy breaths while trying to catch her own. Her body strained and ached, but she was content—happy, even. He stroked her hair, caressed her skin, and pulled her close. She held her hand over his heart, feeling its decisive, rapid beats, and she was terrified she would suddenly wake and realise that this had all been just a dream.

* * *


	37. The Demons of the North: III

** III **

  
There she was, her skin against his skin—her heart against his heart. The smell of her was invigorating, the taste of her, intoxicating—the feel of her, addictive. Never before had mating been this passionate, this pleasurable. He had dreamt of it many times, and imagined it even more so, but none of it compared to the true feel of her. Nothing compared to the sensation she brought him, the satisfaction he had found. As they lay there, entangled, he inspected her body to make sure he hadn’t hurt her. Her pale skin was reddened in places by his firm hands, but other than that, she seemed unharmed. Her cheeks glowed with a healthy heat, and she had a faint smile upon her lips. In his arms, her small frame felt even smaller. She was trembling, breathing heavily. He could feel her heartbeat—fast, but strong. Such a fragile little thing he thought she was, and how she had proved him wrong. She had been strong, resilient, and brave. He never thought an _ohkas_ would be enough to satisfy him, but this girl was more than enough. She was extraordinary. He kissed her neck, and she hummed. He wished he could remain in this dream, just a little longer.

A sudden pang of guilt and horror came over him when he thought about the harsh judgment he would have to withstand from the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon. His seed was sacred, meant only for those chosen for him. If they ever learned the truth, he would be shunned. He should have taken care. Physical pleasure was one thing—even though he should have sought it from a _vas-maasa,_ or at least a _maasa_ , the act in itself was natural, needed. For that, he would be forgiven. Reprimanded, but forgiven. But he should have taken care. Rather he spilt his seed than give it to this woman, this _ohkas_. But those were the thoughts of the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon, not him. He regretted nothing. The girl that now lay in his arms, he had chosen for himself. It was one of the few selfish things he had ever done since becoming the Vasaath—no, since he was a child! He could barely remember the last time he had acted selfishly. He had given everything to the Kasenon. It was only fair he claimed something for himself—and now, he was forever ruined. He would never want anyone else.

He sought her lips and kissed her tenderly. She chuckled, turned to face him, and caressed his cheek. He kissed her neck, her jaw, and hovered his lips over her ear as he whispered to her, “ _ma enaan…_ ”

She giggled. “What does that mean?”

He sighed, buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and said, “I’ll tell you someday.”

The girl huffed. “How generous of you.”

“Now, now,” he muttered and kissed her again, and then he looked at her, inspected her face. Only a faint reminder of her own kind’s cruelty lingered on her cheek and he carefully caressed her small, pink scar, before he sighed and pulled her hair away from her face. “Is there anything you need, my lady?”

She smiled. “Well, now I’m hungry.”

“See, I told you,” he said. “You should have eaten.”

She huffed, pushed him away, and sat up. Her face grimaced, and she fell back onto the bedding with a groan.

He frowned. “You should rest for a while.”

The girl, however, burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

She tried to compose herself, complained about muscle ache, and then she said, “all my life, I’ve heard dreadful stories about your kind, and here I am, with a Grey One as my lover. How quaint!”

The Vasaath pulled her to him, underneath him. “Is that so?” He kissed her neck, tasted her skin, and said, “what stories have you heard?”

“Well, all children hear the story of how the yellow-eyed demons come at night and steal them from their beds and eat them for breakfast,” said the girl with a giggle. “I always hid under the covers when my mother said how they would pick their teeth with my bones.”

The Vasaath laughed. Indeed, he knew about the reputation his people had in these strange lands, but usually, the stories he was told were moderated. Surely, the _ohkasenon_ telling them wouldn’t risk angering the Kas, and the Vasaath could respect such self-preservation. “Are there any more stories?”

“There are hundreds of them,” she said. “It’s everything from how you curse humans and wear your enemies’ skulls on your belts, to…” She bit her lip, and her eyes hazed. “To how you steal women away to keep them in your beds.”

“Did I steal you away?” he teased against her lips, feeling his gusto return to him.

She shook her head and urged for a kiss, and he obliged.

He couldn’t keep his hands from her, and his desires demanded more. He beckoned her, pleaded for permission, and she granted it to him with an earnest invitation. He was eager, which was unlike him, but he would savour this moment all he could, knowing that their time together was limited. He would savour her body, claim it—if only for a moment—and let her know the depth of his desires, of his emotions. He was impressed by how much strain her small frame could endure, but he did not complain. It was quite the contrary, but he had to control himself, and not get carried away—she was still human, petite in comparison, and spent. He found bliss, nonetheless, a heavenly moment when nothing mattered or existed except for himself and the divine young woman whom his soul had fused with, and who sheathed him most passionately as she received him. She held him when he slumped down against her, with an affection he rarely had felt throughout his life. It was a strange sensation, but one that wasn’t unwelcomed. When he rolled to his back, he brought her with him, making her sprawl across his chest.

She laughed—they both did—and she said, “I think I need to rest for a fortnight.”

“Oh, you will be fine,” he said. “But will need that brew.”

She sighed and rested her head on his chest. “Yes. I’d forgotten about that.”

He sighed, as well, and drove his fingers through her dark locks. Yes, he would most certainly be shunned for such selfishness, but he didn’t mind. Right there, right then, he wanted to be gone with both the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon—they were old tyrants with hearts of stone, anyway. The Vasaath had also been cold, but then he experienced true feelings, true passion. He was uncertain if anyone—even himself—could possibly understand the marvellous feat the girl in his arms had accomplished; in her very modest manner, she had warmed a heart as cold as the tundra. The awakening had been slow, but little by little, his heart had beat with more and more fervour each time she had looked at him, smiled at him, and touched him. Now, knowing that she had given him everything she could, his heart was bursting. In a way, he was terrified—he had long thought that if he only could have her, bed her, this infatuation would be over, but now he felt more devoted to her than ever. Intimacy had always been a necessity, ease of mind and tension, but never more than that. All his life, he had been taught not to confuse the needs of the heart with the needs of the flesh, and he still did not. No, it was very clear to him that those were very different needs, indeed. He had just never encountered a single individual that could satisfy them both, and neither of them had ever been this explicit. He wanted her, heart and soul, now more than ever.

* * *


	38. The Demons of the North: IV

** IV **

  
Juniper was exhausted. Her legs were numb, she was sore, and her breath was short. No more, she thought. She could take no more. But the Vasaath seemed satisfied, and she certainly was, and now she only wished to fall into a blissful sleep. Then, her belly rumbled impatiently. She had forgotten how hungry she was. Without a word, the Vasaath gently rolled her to the side and motioned her to stay put. He then rose, put his breeches on, and left the bedchamber. She missed him at once, but allowed herself to stretch despite her straining muscles. Even the ache was pleasant, in its own strange way.

When he returned a short while later, he brought with him a plate of food, and a cup of the black liquid she had brewed earlier. She was grateful and attempted to sit. Her whole body resisted but she fought through it and sat up, albeit slowly. She groaned and laughed.

“Does it hurt?” he asked her and she could see the worry in his eyes.

“I’m not made of glass,” she reminded him, but when his face did not soften, she smiled reassuringly. “I’m a bit sore, but I’ve experienced worse pain, trust me.”

“You eat,” he said, “and I’ll be back shortly.”

He left her again, and Juniper devoured the food he had brought her. When she turned to the cup with the black concoction, she hesitated. It looked rather ominous, black as ink, and smelled quite pungent. She took a deep breath and downed it in one sweep. It was awful and burned in her throat. She coughed, croaked, and quickly stuffed her mouth with the grapes that were left on her plate. The Vasaath came hurling in, alerted, and demanded to know what was wrong. He was carrying a dripping cloth in his hand, and when Juniper told him that nothing was wrong and that she only drank the Shadow Veil, he relaxed and huffed.

“Yes,” he muttered while wringing the water out of the rag. “I’ve never tasted it myself, but I’ve heard it’s not very pleasant.” He removed the plate and handed her the rag, telling her to press it to where it hurt.

She smiled at the thoughtfulness, but her ache was manageable. She accepted the wet cloth either way and carefully washed herself. When she was finished, she lay back down and sighed deeply. She felt strong and free, as if she had found new courage and new will. The Vasaath joined her on the bed and settled in comfortably next to her. He held her close, caressed her gently, and lay in silence.

She quickly drifted off into a deep sleep, and when she awoke the morning after, she found herself alone in the bed. She had been carefully wrapped in the furs, encased in a warm cocoon. With a sigh, she slowly rose. Her body still ached, as if she was bruised, but she paid it no mind; she was built for pain, as her mother used to tell her—in comparison to the red moon, this was nothing.

With some effort, she managed to get dressed, and when she left the bedchamber, she found the Vasaath sitting by the table with a large map in front of him. She wished him good morning, and he met her with a warm gaze.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Well, to be honest,” she huffed and carefully sank down next to him, “I feel quite battered. Other than that, I am very content.”

He gently touched her back and said, “I’ve had some of the men draw you a hot bath. Perhaps that will make you feel better.”

Juniper groaned. The last thing she wanted was receiving side-eyed glances from the other soldiers. “I don’t want to be any trouble, sir!”

“It’s no trouble,” he insisted and kissed her softly. “You are an honoured guest.”

She shifted awkwardly and bit her lip. “So, they don’t know what we... well, _did_?”

He frowned and shook his head. “It’s our secret.”

“And Kasethen’s, and Neema’s,” Juniper reminded him.

The Vasaath raised a brow. “Yes, well, they will keep it to themselves.”

She chuckled, but it felt nice having such an affair as a secret; it felt private, and precious. It was something that only concerned the two of them. She had known since childhood that she would marry politically, and that her purity and virtue were the attributes which would determine how well-received she would be by the noble houses. Her romantic affairs were national affairs and concerned the whole dukedom. If she were salacious, she would be harshly judged by all six dukedoms, as well as Illyria. She was not free to love whomever, and neither was the Vasaath. Keeping their relationship a secret was necessary for them both, and she would rather keep it so than have everyone’s nose in it.

The bath did wonders to her healing frame, and by late afternoon, the ache was nearly gone. She was enjoying a book when Neema suddenly stood by the entrance of Juniper’s tent, waiting for an invitation.

“Please,” said Juniper and rose, “come in.”

The woman smiled and stepped inside with a basket in her hand. “The Vasaath wanted me to make sure you were feeling well. I have some salves and herbs that can help you if you need it.”

“Thank you.”

Neema gently grabbed Juniper’s chin and observed her face. “Yes, you have freed soul now.”

Juniper smiled, blushed, and looked away. Indeed, she felt lighter than air. “Can I offer you some tea?”

The woman seemed surprised, but accepted graciously and sat down by the table. “So, from one woman to another: how was your first experience?”

Juniper felt her cheeks glow as she put the kettle to the fire. “It was… I don’t even know how to describe it.” She turned to Neema and asked, “do you do that every day?”

Neema seemed shocked before the burst out laughing. “My dear, no!”

“Oh.” Juniper was suddenly very embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t you worry,” said Neema and gathered herself. “I’m not offended. I know you must think I am nothing but a pleasure worker—or a common whore—but trust me, what I do couldn’t be more different.”

Juniper sat down on one of the pillows, still a bit embarrassed for her blunt prejudice. “I don’t think of you as… well, _that_.”

“It’s perfectly reasonable,” said Neema. “It’s the way you have been raised. I was raised the same way. Trust me, I know the difference.”

“Where do you come from, then?” Juniper asked. “You’re Edredian, so I doubt you were born in Kasarath.”

Neema smiled. “No, indeed I was not. I was born on a small island west of here, probably as far west as the words of Edred have settled.”

“So you converted?”

“I was a child when the Kas came to my village,” said Neema.

Juniper looked at the woman, eyed her carefully, before she said, “so you were forced to convert, then?”

Neema sighed. “My mother died of fever when I was very young, and my father lived on the bottom of a bottle and couldn’t afford to keep me on. So, he sold me as a maid to a pleasure house when I was but five years old. I saw horrors done to women there than you couldn’t possibly fathom, my lady. I still remember the day the Kas came, very vividly. I was eleven years old, and I watched as these grey giants cut through the men like a hot knife through butter. They hurt no women and no children, and any man that laid down his weapon was spared. When the fighting was over, I remember how I was taken into the arms of a soldier who promised me that no one would ever hurt me again.” The woman had a sorrowful look about her, and then she said, “and no one has ever since.” Neema sighed again. “So, you see, I wasn’t forced—I was saved. From that day, I knew I wanted to help these magnificent people save others like me.”

“But do you feel free? Truly?” Juniper asked in earnest. “Do you not feel trapped in your… role?”

Neema rested her elbows on the table. “You don’t know what freedom is if you’ve never been truly trapped. I have. I went from being treated horribly, by everyone, but most of all by men, to be a highly respected member of a beautiful society, where men barely even look you in the eye unless you give them permission to.” Neema smiled. “Yes, I have an appointed role, a role I didn’t choose for myself, that much is true. But I have a purpose, a function. That function is vital to make our society work. I’m a healer. That is my function. Do I sometimes engage in intimate meetings? Yes. Sometimes, that is necessary for a person to heal. Am I forced to it? No. I am free to choose, as any other _maasa_. Many never lie with their patients, and that is their choice. If I choose to indulge them, they treat me like a goddess. Most times, I just tend to wounds or upset stomachs, or simply hold someone and give them a shoulder to cry on.” She leaned forwards. “You ask me if I _feel_ free. The answer is yes, but no one is truly free. We are all bound by something, be it family, duty, dreams, or desires… I think we all feel trapped at some point in our lives, while we feel free other times. But do I have _freedom_? Of course.”

Juniper pondered this for a moment. It wasn’t the answer she had expected, and neither did she truly understand it. What was freedom, if not choice? “If you didn’t choose your role, and with your terrible experiences, how can you live so comfortably in it?”

“Because I want to help,” said Neema. “For me, it’s very easy. I heal, so I help. Had I been a baker, I would have given food to the people. Had I been a teacher, I would have taught the children. On a personal level, I have taken control of my own body.”

“But what about the people who want to travel the world?” Juniper asked. “What about the people who want to have a family of their own and not hand over their children?”

Neema’s face hardened and she straightened. “You speak of children as a person’s right, but what about the child? Aren’t we bound by morality to let the children have the best possible opportunities in life? Aren’t we selfish if we claim that the children are always better off with those who birthed them?”

“Are they not?”

“I certainly wasn’t. My father sold me to a horrible woman so that he could keep drinking. When I arrived at Kasarath, I was embraced by a woman with so much love, I burst into tears. No one had ever held me like that before. Not even my own mother held that much love for me, and this woman had just met me. She was my _nemethan_ , my teacher, my _mother_ , and she loved me from the moment she laid her eyes on me. She has taught me everything I know about love and respect.”

Juniper dropped her gaze, ashamed and embarrassed. Who was she to speak of mothers and fathers? “My father wants to sell me, as well. Not to a pleasure house, no, but he wants to marry me to a horrible man.”

“If he was a good father, he wouldn’t do that,” Neema said coldly.

“But it is _my_ appointed role.” Tears prickled her eyes as she gazed up. “It is my duty to bring together my house with another great house and secure political alliances. I am to birth sons that will one day rule Westbridge, whose sons will succeed them. That is _my_ role, _my_ function, and I can find no freedom in that.”

“Some would call you lucky,” said Neema. “You’d have a comfortable home, food in abundance, beautiful dresses, servants… there are people out there who don’t even own a pair of shoes. Would you be ready to live like that, or would you rather have your castle and your food and your husband?”

Juniper bit her tongue. Indeed, how could she justify the hatred she felt for her fate when she knew there were people out there who had it worse?

“I am not robbing you of your pain, my lady,” said Neema, now softer. “But answer me this: would you have felt trapped, had they respected you?”

She wondered, but even in her mind, such a notion was impossible. She shrugged her shoulders.

“You will never be free in these lands, because you are a woman,” said the _maasa_. “Not even _women_ respect women here, for Builder’s sake! I am free because I am respected. Am I allowed to keep my child? No. No one is, because we all know that they are better off with those who are carefully selected to raise them. Am I allowed to travel the world? I am here now, aren’t I? I chose to go with the _Saathenaan_ to see new places, and to be at the forefront when they save people from the rot. That was my choice.”

Juniper sat in silence. She had nothing to say, no point to argue. Neema was right: if women were respected, Lord Christopher would never have struck her—and neither would her father. Had she been respected, as a woman, her father wouldn’t speak about her the way he did, and neither would the people in the city. That was indeed an indisputable fact, and perhaps it could even be called a _rot_.

“Do you feel uncertain about joining the Kasenon?” Neema then asked.

Juniper shifted awkwardly. “I have already escaped one terrible fate, but have I done so only to have another one thrust upon me?”

“What are your aspirations, then? What do you want in life?”

“I don’t know!” Juniper huffed. “All I know is that I want the freedom to choose!”

“Yes, that would be the ultimate dream, for all of us, but it will only ever be a dream.” Neema sighed deeply. “I think that water is boiled by now.”

Juniper quickly rose to prepare the tea, and served them both. They drank it in silence, both seemingly deep in thought, and it then struck Juniper how much she had missed female company. Despite their rather upsetting argument, she still felt comfortable in Neema’s presence. The woman possessed strength and confidence, something Juniper had seldom seen in a woman before; it was as though she knew her worth and that no one could bring her down. She didn’t even cower before the Vasaath himself. It was admirable and inspiring.

After a few more moments, the _maasa_ rose, thanked for the tea, and turned to leave the tent.

“I hope we can be friends,” Juniper quickly said, and Neema paused.

“Of course, my dear,” said she. “We have to take care of each other.”

Juniper nodded, feeling warmth spreading inside her body—the unfamiliar feeling of trust, and true kinship. Neema was a kindred soul, she was sure of it.

* * *


	39. The Demons of the North: V

** V **

  
The _kaseraad_ had done an excellent job mapping the city. It wasn’t the largest of cities, but it surely was packed like one—it was obvious where the majority of its people were housed, and it wasn’t in the fancier parts of the city. The further up the hill the city stretched, the broader the streets, the wider the squares, and the larger the houses. Further down towards the harbour, the streets were narrow, crooked, and the houses were small and many. If they could draw the forces to them and meet them in the narrow streets, they would have a good chance of winning this fight. Annexing the city was, however, another matter. Castle Fairgarden was resting atop the hill, secluded and fortified. They would have to face the forces head-on if they wanted to advance. They could lay siege to the fortress, but that could last all winter. They would not be able to breach the castle if a thousand guards defended it—they would need more men for that.

It was a strange and alien feeling to him, uncertainty, but there was a troubling feeling inside of him that the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon hadn’t sent the forces yet. Had they even received his inquiry? He sent it with merchants he trusted, with men that had made the journey between Noxborough and Kasarath many times before, and with men that knew they would lose their heads if they failed him—but they hadn’t returned either. If they had been lost at sea, things were dire and the Vasaath had to make sure he would have the support he needed when he needed it.

He sent another inquiry that afternoon with one of his messenger birds, knowing that if this message didn’t reach Vas-an-arath in time, the battle would be lost. He had gathered a war council with his highest-ranking officers, his _kaseraad_ , and with Kasethen. Perhaps, if they all put their clever heads together, they could think of a way to beat the odds and defeat their enemies.

“What do we know of the Westbridge army?” the Vasaath asked.

“We know that both the Duke of Noxborough and the Duke of Westbridge left the city four days ago,” said one of the _kaseraad_. “We presume they left to meet the army.”

“Did anyone follow them?”

“Yes, we sent two riders.”

The Vasaath nodded. “Good. What about Fairgarden? Is there a way in?”

The spies all looked at each other before they said, “we haven’t found a way in yet, sir. It’s a highly secured fortress. The walls are high and the gates are heavy, but our ram should be able to break them open.”

“My lord,” said another spy. “We have noted rising unrest amongst the poorer citizens. They are on the brink, sir. It might be a good idea to use that unrest to our advantage. It will be more difficult for the guards to defend the city if the people are rebelling.”

“No, we cannot do that!” Kasethen’s voice was hard. “Sir, we have to think of a better, more sustainable way of taking this city. We need to do it before winter, and we need the city to be peaceful enough so that we can ship our old and our young here to spare them the cold. Or, at least we need the city to be cooperative enough to help us farm and ship resources to Kasarath.”

The Vasaath frowned deeply. He knew that Kasethen was right—it would take them a very long time, if not years, to bring order to a civil war. He grunted. “We did not come here to create chaos. We came to bring order. We need a better way.”

The spies all nodded.

The Vasaath looked at the map. “If we can concentrate the fighting to these narrow streets,” he said and pointed at the lower districts, “we could make away with as many guards as possible. It can’t fit more than, what? Two fighting men, in these alleyways? If we fight strategically, we can cut them down one by one and make our way towards the castle.”

“But how do we force them down here?” asked a _rasaath_. “They must know as well as we that we have the advantages here.”

“Unless they assume the offensive party,” said another officer.

“Yes,” said the Vasaath. “If they decide to be offensive, they might come here. They would have us trapped, and if we let ourselves be surrounded by six thousand men, we will be. We have to control this. We have to find a way to make them come here, on our terms.”

“They have the larger number, sir,” said Kasethen. “They will be the ones making demands.”

“Then how can we turn the tables?” the Vasaath asked and frowned. He imagined six thousand men in plate armour marching towards them from all directions; if they had only attacked when they had their City Guards there! A thousand men was still a difficult battle, but it was manageable. He cursed himself for being arrogant, thinking that the Duke would never find the aid of another city.

“My lord, if I may?” said a spy, and the Vasaath nodded. “There is a possible solution to this conundrum: we have leverage. They want the lady back, but we have her. Let’s use that to—”

“No.” The Vasaath had to restrain himself, or else he’d lift the man by his throat for even suggesting such a thing. “We will not use the girl.”

“But, my lord,” the spy persisted, “surely the Duke would come to his daughter’s aid if—”

“Enough!” the Vasaath growled and glared at the spy, who shrunk under his stare, looked away, and answered, “yes, sir.”

Kasethen sighed. “The Vasaath is right, there is no point putting Lady Juniper at risk. Although I can understand your reasoning, _kaseraad_ , we will lose the argument if they call our bluff.”

“I heard you mention my name, is there anything I can do?”

Her sweet voice sent shivers along his spine, sparking his desires, and all the Vasaath could think of was how she sang in bliss the night before. Turning and facing the girl who had just entered the tent unnoticeably, he couldn’t help but swoon, just a little. For a second, there was no one else in the room but them, and he wanted to pull her in and kiss her deeply. “My lady,” he said cordially. “We were in the middle of a council meeting. I’m sure it’s nothing of interest to you.”

“I am very sorry for my intrusion, sir,” she said with a quick curtsy, “I shall leave at once.”

“No,” said the Vasaath and gestured her to join them. “By all means, stay. You know your home better than we do—we could use your knowledge.”

The girl hesitated, but joined him obediently. He knew she wouldn’t be comfortable telling them the secrets she knew of the city, but perhaps there was something she was willing to give away.

“We were discussing—or rather, dismissing—the idea of using you as leverage, my lady,” said Kasethen and glared at the man giving the suggestion.

Juniper turned her head to the advisor and then nodded. “That would indeed be reasonable.” She turned her head to the map on the table. “You’re outnumbered and need as many advantages as possible.” Shaking her head, she said, “Westbridge has an Illyrian trained army, it will not be in your favour to meet their forces head-on. Unless…” She leaned forwards to examine the map closer. “You have missed the Mud Mire, right here.”

“The what?” the Vasaath asked and leaned over the map as well.

She pointed at a spot outside the edges of the map. “The Mud Mire. It’s by the delta east of the city. In summer, it’s quite dry, but the autumn rains should come over the mountains any day now, and then, it will quickly become a mud field.”

“We can’t fight in a mud field,” said one of the officers, and the others concurred.

“If you keep moving, you won’t sink,” said the girl. “They, on the other hand, wear heavy armour. They won’t be able to move around as easily, and they will be restricted and slowed compared to you. You might have a chance, then.”

The Vasaath looked at her, utterly surprised to hear her speak of war—not only with such wisdom and clarity, but also in their favour. “That is an excellent idea,” he said, “but the soldiers from Noxborough ought to know that as well?”

“I doubt the City Guard will leave the city, but my father knows about the Mud Mire. What they will do, however, depends on what they are willing to risk,” said Juniper. “West of here, the cliff sides go deep into the land in great gorges, and the cracks make the terrain deceitful. If the rain comes here in time, it will make the rocks slippery—deadly. Not a good place for a battle.” She sighed. “If they wish to meet you head-on, which they probably want since they outnumber you greatly, the only choices they have is either the rocks, or the Mud Mire.”

“And they would rather risk slipping in the mud than falling down a gorge,” the Vasaath nodded.

“Indeed,” said the girl.

The Vasaath huffed, but could not keep from smirking. “I thought women of your country weren’t allowed any knowledge of war.”

“I’ve spent my entire life listening to arrogant men trying to outdo each other in military strategy, sir,” said Juniper and straightened. “They all just presumed I wouldn’t understand.”

The Vasaath narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “In your experience then, what are our chances?”

“With your current number? Slim, sir,” said the girl. “Your best chance is to avoid fighting the Westbridge army altogether.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?” the Vasaath asked.

“Well, you will have to convince Duke Cornwall that he is fighting a meaningless war,” said she. “The Duke of Westbridge would not send his forces all the way to Noxborough unless he was promised something in return. I am promised to his son and heir, and I would be his link to Noxborough, the gateway to the Winter Sea and a world of sea trade.” She smiled coyly. “So, you see, they don’t wish to save me because of chivalry, but because of the power my sons will have.”

“Yes, but my lady,” said Kasethen, “we have dismissed using you as bait—we wouldn’t want to risk your safety.”

“I won’t be bait,” said Juniper. “Let me be an emissary.”

The Vasaath knitted his brows and heard the men around him start to murmur something to each other. He asked her, “an emissary of what?”

“Of you,” she said. “Send me to speak to them. Let the Duke of Westbridge know I was not abducted, and that I have abandoned my faith for the Kasenon. He is a god-fearing man, that would make me quite unfavourable in his eyes.”

“My lady, with all due respect,” said one of the officers, “you cannot convert without the Vasmenaan’s blessing.”

“No, indeed,” said the girl and smiled respectfully, “but they don’t know that.” She gestured at her clothing. “At least I look the part.”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw. “No. I won’t send you.”

Lady Juniper looked up at him, her wide silver eyes glittering. “My lord, if the promise can’t be fulfilled, Duke Cornwall has no gain in this. He would never fight another man’s war. He would never leave his city vulnerable for such a disappointment.”

“No.”

“The woman speaks sense, sir,” said a _kaseraad_. “If we have a chance of diminishing—”

“I will not send her.” His patience was quickly slipping, as was his temper. He clenched his fists, trying to compose himself. The argument was fruitless; he would not send Juniper— _his_ Juniper—into such danger.

“You don’t understand how our politics works,” said she, agitation brewing just below the surface of her voice, “but I do. If I declare to them that I was _not_ abducted, that I came here willingly, and that I am—”

“ _Enough_!” his bark was meaner than he’d intended and caused everyone around the table to jolt. His patience, however, had run out. “I will hear no more of this!” He turned to the girl. “You are _not_ an emissary, and you are _certainly_ not a proven war diplomat! Why would I let you out? I might as well _hand_ them the only leverage we have!”

The girl’s large silver eyes watered, her face turned pale, and he could see the hurt in her. He had done it again: he had treated her like a prisoner. Indeed, he had heard his own words, but he couldn’t stop them. And now, he couldn’t comfort her. Not in front of his men—but his heart ached. Could she not see that he was trying to protect her? That he was trying to keep her out of harm’s way?

Juniper looked away and quickly swept a hand over her cheeks. “Forgive me, sir. It was wrong of me to interfere.” She curtsied quickly before she turned on her heels and scurried out of the tent.

The Vasaath kept his gaze where she had disappeared, pondering about whether he should hurry after her or steel himself. Never before had he felt such regret in rebuking anyone. The girl had twisted him—ruptured him, possibly beyond repair.

The men were silent for a moment, all seemingly hesitant to say something else that could anger the Vasaath, before an officer said, “I still don’t think we should fight on a mud field, it’s too risky.” The other men sounded their agreement, and the discussion continued.

* * *


	40. The Demons of the North: VI

** VI **

  
The Duke of Westbridge was a pompous man, Richmond knew as much. He had very little northern pride; he adored those ridiculous Illyrians and their perversion for trinkets and gold. Seeing the short and stout man in golden armour atop a white stallion was gagging. The hilt of his rapier was gold as well, and was probably worth more than fifty white stallions. Where Lord Cornwall got his wealth had always been a mystery—how he was able to pay for an army of well-trained Illyrian soldiers was beyond most people. But there he was, strutting in front of his hired men who were wearing his Drawbridge sigil, on a horse he could never mount by himself.

“Proud men of Edred!” he shouted. “Soon, we have reached the end of our march, and we shall prove our strength and resolve to those who wish to destroy us!” Despite a deafening silence from the troops, the Duke continued. “We march to defend our future, not only by rescuing the fair maiden stolen from her bed by the foul demons, but also by standing up for what we believe in!” Some of the men nodded, but the morale was low. “We believe in the Builder, in his guidance and justice, and we believe that we have the strength and the vigilance to—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Richmond spat and spurred on his horse to intersect Cornwall and turned to the men. “Those grey bastards will bleed, just like any other animal. And that is exactly what they are: animals! So let’s go for a hunt, and afterwards, you can buy as much wine and as many whores as you want. So, what do you say? Let’s kill some _fucking_ beasts!” Finally, the men responded. A cheer was carried all through the ranks, and Richmond glared at Cornwall and hissed, “they’re fucking sell-swords, Cornwall. Not holy warriors. Know your men. Builder’s balls…” With a snarl, he urged his horse forwards. He wanted to go home, get this over and done with, and return to normal.

* * *


	41. The Demons of the North: VII

** VII **

  
Once she had returned to her own tent, she tried her best to gather herself. The Vasaath was a composed man, she knew that, and yet she always seemed to get on his nerves somehow. After all that had transpired between them, she knew she shouldn’t feel so offended, but his outburst had made her feel small and belittled. She knew she shouldn’t—he was right, after all. She had never been an emissary, and she had never delivered demands of any sort. She wasn’t a politician, nor was she a diplomat. Her first true diplomatic mission was to act as an ambassador for her people, and that ended with her falling in love with the enemy. The Kas was under an enormous amount of pressure, and they couldn’t risk anything. Of course they would not send someone as inexperienced—and as valuable—as Juniper. Despite everything the Vasaath had promised her, about being free to leave whenever, she knew that was not strictly true. It was more complicated than that. They would be foolish to let her go, and everyone knew that. As long as she was of value to their enemies, she would be of value to them. Even though it was a fact, a wartime constitution, she felt no less like a commodity.

There was nothing she could do to get her mind off the war. All she kept thinking about was strategies to keep as many people as possible alive, but no matter what strategy she could think of, it would either end with the death of her family or the death of her love. Neither was a preferable option.

She knew not how much time had passed when the Vasaath came to see her. His face was troubled. He could barely look her in the eye when he apologised for his foul temper. He didn’t mean to offend her or shout at her—that was beneath him, he said.

“I shouldn’t have treated you like a prisoner. I’m ashamed, appalled. I just... the thought of you going out there to—” He sighed deeply, gritted his teeth, and gazed ardently at her. “Please, Juniper, forgive me.”

Juniper bit her lip. Indeed, she was offended, but she was also well aware of the agitated situation. Had she shown such insolence in front of her father, the consequences would have been very different. For one, she would never receive such a heartfelt apology. So she told him she forgave him. Relieved, he pulled her into his embrace, held her tightly, and kissed her tenderly. Juniper did indeed forgive him; she did not wish to quarrel and bicker about what was and what wasn’t true regarding her position. She knew the answer already, even if he did not.

He chuckled, caressed her hair, and said, “it was a good idea, the Mud Mire. How did you come to think of it?”

“It’s an old Illyrian tale,” said Juniper, “about the Knight and the Black Pit. In the Wilder Hills in Illyria, just south of the Dawning River, it is said that there is this large pit of ash that turns black when it rains, and swallows anything that comes in its way, spitting them into the Netherworld. One day, a knight and his squire came across this strange spot of land and set up a camp to shelter from the wind. When the dark fell, the rain came, and the ash turned black and started to swallow the knight and his squire. The squire was light on his feet and escaped the devouring ink, but the knight in his armour sank like a stone. The squire tried to pull his master out, but had to watch him sink further and further down, until all but his hand had been buried in the sludge. To this day, it is said that his hand still sticks out of the ash, ready to grab anyone who crosses it, and drag you down with him to the Netherworld.”

The Vasaath narrowed his eyes. “And what is really in these Wilder Hills?” he asked. “It must be something valuable.”

Juniper shrugged. “It could be gold, or gemstones, or it’s simply a cautionary tale to keep children from running about during the rainy seasons. The Dawning River is easily flooded come autumn.”

“Your stories hold much power over you people,” said the Vasaath and furrowed his brows. “Why?”

“We are superstitious, I suppose,” Juniper smiled.

“Very,” he nodded.

They had their supper, spoke only about fleeting things, and went to bed when the day was over. They kissed each other for a long time once they had settled, and fell asleep peacefully nestled in each other’s embrace. The morning after, they both awoke by the thundering hooves of horses echoing inside the fort and raised voices calling for the Vasaath.

He immediately rose and told Juniper to stay. He was tense, she could see that, as he pulled his breeches on and strode out of the chamber. Juniper felt worry creep along her spine and she sat up while tightly gripping the furs. She heard him bark and bellow, but she had yet to learn their harsh tongue. It was clear, however, that something was awry. She hurried out of bed and dressed. Carefully, she peaked out onto the courtyard and found the soldiers scurrying about. Suddenly, the Vasaath was striding towards her, and she gasped and ducked back in. His jaw was set tight, and he barely looked at her as he walked back into the bedchamber.

Juniper followed him. “What is happening? What is the matter?”

The Vasaath armoured himself swiftly but orderly and said, “the army is coming. It will reach Noxborough in a few hours.”

Juniper felt her heart in her throat. “What will you do?”

“If they want a fight, we’ll give them a fight,” the Vasaath muttered.

Her heart thudded loudly, and she suddenly felt her knees tremble and almost buckle. The realisation just hit her, that she might lose him—two hundred against five thousand Illyrian soldiers and another thousand City Guards was hardly a fight at all. “What if you don’t fight?” she asked, breathlessly.

He shook his head and turned to leave. “Don’t be ridiculous, Juniper.”

“No!” She rushed to stand before him, placing her hands on his chest, and braced herself. “Please, don’t do this! Don’t leave me!”

He looked at her, his face serious and stern, and grabbed her chin to gaze into her soul. “I will kill them all with my own hands if I have to,” he growled. “I will do anything to keep them from you, _menaan_.” Then, he kissed her, more assertively than he had ever kissed her before, and she melted away in his grip. She didn’t know what it meant, what he called her, but he said it with such heart, it had to mean something good. When he released her, he gave her one last look before he left for the courtyard.

Juniper felt helpless, bewildered, and could do little else than follow him out. All the soldiers were occupied with gathering their weapons and preparing for a fight, and Juniper withdrew back to her tent, fearing she would be in the way otherwise. She could not, however, sit. She paced back and forth, going through the worst possible ending to this conflict, the best possible ending, and everything in-between; the only ones she could imagine that ended well were nothing but fantasies. In reality, it would end in one of two ways: either the Kas would be defeated, and she would lose her love just as she’d found him and be forced to marry Lord Christopher, or the Kas would win, and she would lose her family, her home, and her culture. She knew not what end she preferred if she had to choose one.

She finally sat down, after having paced for what felt like an eternity. She tried to divert her mind from the grim world, but with little success. Time seemed to creep ever so slowly, and Juniper couldn’t find peace. She paced the tent again, walked around the courtyard, and carefully eavesdropped on the Vasaath and his council from outside his tent—why, she did not know, because she didn’t understand a word they said. She felt restless, worried, and before she knew it, she had sought her way to Neema.

The woman embraced her, quickly noticing her worry, and hushed her. “This is war, my dear.”

“What if he doesn’t return?” Juniper whispered.

“Do you know why the Vasaath’s braid is so long?” Neema asked, and Juniper shook her head. “It’s because he has never lost a fight. I don’t think he’s about to start now.” She nodded. “He will find a way.”

Juniper sighed. “Then my father and brother will die.”

“Not if they submit,” said Neema. “The Kasenon allows a second chance.”

“My father will never submit,” said Juniper. “He’s too stubborn. My brother… I’m not sure. Perhaps if I could speak to him, he’d be willing to save himself, but if not…” She quickly wiped away a tear that rolled down her cheek. “He is Father’s son. Sometimes, he is just as pigheaded as Father.”

Neema sighed and sat down. While inviting Juniper to do the same, she said, “a man’s pride is important, of course. If they will not submit, then at least they will die an honourable death and they will be accepted into the Void.”

Juniper felt a crushing weight upon her, as though a boulder had fallen upon her shoulders. “My father doesn’t deserve the Void, but he doesn’t deserve the Netherworld either. He has been a terrible man all my life, and yet… he is my father. I cannot wish him harm.”

“You are a good daughter,” said Neema. “I was a good daughter too, and yet my father gave me away.” She sighed. “I don’t wish him harm—I doubt he’s still alive, and I genuinely hope he has found peace—but he does not deserve the grace of the Builder.”

Juniper nodded.

“Here, have some camomile tea, it will calm you down.” Neema poured her a cup and handed her the golden liquid. “We don’t know what will happen. No one does. There is no point in thinking about whats and ifs until the future is clearer to us.”

Juniper nodded, but the future was already clear to her. There was only one end to this, where one unbendable part had to bow to the other.

* * *


	42. The Demons of the North: VIII

** VIII **

  
Soon, the red sails of Kasarath would be on that horizon, the Vasaath thought as he glanced out over the clear blue bay. The sun glistened on the waves, the breeze was crisp, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. As soon as the dark fell, he would see the lights of more than two hundred ships as his brothers and sisters came to his aid—but there was dread in him. Five thousand men had reached the city walls; their stomping had been heard all the way down to the docks, and word from the _kaseraad_ had said that their camp was vast. The city was quiet. The people must have hidden inside their houses, knowing a battle was imminent. The Vasaath had spoken to his men, told them that they might very well die on those streets that day, but for every one of them dying, they would drag at least ten of their enemies with them. That was the way of the Kas. He thought about the Mud Mire, about how such a plan might actually work, but there was little chance Duke Arlington would agree on facing them there. The rocks seemed just as unlikely. The streets were their only choice.

He breathed slowly, deeply, searching for the strength and focus he needed inside of him. He prepared himself for pain, for death, as he had done so many times before. Now, however, the girl’s silver eyes appeared to him, and he felt weak. He had never before feared death, but now he did—no, he didn’t fear losing his life, he feared losing _her_. Not only did he fear losing her, but he feared the nightmare he would leave her in. He focused harder, knowing that he could not die. He would not die.

“Leader.” A _rasaath_ marched up to the Vasaath and bowed. “A white hawk, sir. It came with a message.”

The Vasaath turned to the soldier and reached for the parchment roll he carried. “An Osprey,” the Vasaath muttered. “It’s an Osprey.” The Noxborough seal was holding the scroll closed, adorned with the image of the magnificent sea bird. The Vasaath set his jaw tight and broke open the wax. The message was short, but clear: if the Kas didn’t lay down their weapons and leave Noxborough before dawn, the Westbridge army would attack at first light. It was already far into the afternoon—soon, the sun would set. He looked at the solider. “Gather the council.”

“Yes, sir.” The soldier scurried away, and the Vasaath turned back to gaze out over the horizon. If only they would come, in the nick of time, there would be no defeat in sight. If they didn’t, they would have to stand and fight, and they would most certainly die in this strange land.

When he arrived at his tent, the officers and spies had already arrived. Kasethen looked worried, but hid it well. The Vasaath shared the content of the scroll, and the men all scowled. They had faced many battles together, but none had been this dire. Their mission was too important, and honour prevented them from returning to Kasarath with their tails between their legs. Battle was their only option. Their prospects, however, had never been this bad. They shouted at one another, tried to outvote each other, but when the grim reality had settled over them, they all went quiet. When the news first arrived that morning, that the army was marching, they all agreed that they would hope for rain and prepare to fight in the dirt, and to attack from the streets if the sky stayed clear, but now they realised that nothing would be enough; they couldn’t beat an army of six thousand soldiers by forcing them into the streets, and they couldn’t possibly beat them head-on. They all faced something they had never faced before—total defeat. They would fight until their last breath, but they would do so with heavy hearts.

When the meeting ended, for the second time that day, the Vasaath and Kasethen walked the battlements together. The Vasaath grunted. “You were right. I underestimated them.”

“Sir,” said Kasethen, “we always knew it would come to this. Perhaps we didn’t know what odds we would fight against, but we knew this day would come.”

“Look at the sky, Kasethen,” the Vasaath said. “Not a cloud as far as the eye can reach. No rain, no mud, and no slippery stones. We have only the city to rely on, but if Arlington is clever enough, he will attack us on all fronts. They could have us slaughtered within an hour.”

“Yes, the odds seem to be against us, indeed,” Kasethen muttered. “But perhaps we still have one possibility.”

“What?”

“I know you don’t want it, but Lady Juniper might be our only salvation.”

“No.”

Kasethen sighed. “She was right, you know. If the truth comes from the lady herself, Duke Cornwall must know he is fighting for nothing.”

The Vasaath glared at his advisor. “If her child is more important than her, do you really think they would just give up because a _woman_ claims she has joined their enemies? Or would they just destroy the enemies and reclaim the woman? They don’t see her as someone with agency. Her opinions and actions don’t matter to them. They would just keep her in chains.”

Kasethen frowned. “I don’t claim to know much about mainland politics, sir, but I know they believe sins are inherited. She would be a traitor, no? Well, then Christopher Cornwall would marry a traitor. His son would be a traitor. That means that the future heir of Westbridge… would be a traitor. Arlington might still want to fight, but are you sure Cornwall is willing to do the same?”

The Vasaath listened carefully. Although he found their ridiculous notions of inheritance and _sin_ to be irksome, there was still sense in Kasethen’s words. But it would mean that he had to send Juniper— _his_ Juniper—into danger. “We will not use her.” It was final. He could not live with himself if he did something like that to her.

Kasethen sighed deeply, defeated.

The Vasaath looked back upon the sea. The truth was harsh, dark, and sour. “If we don’t see red sails on that horizon before sundown, we will die at first light.”

Kasethen snorted bitterly. “Once, they feared us. Now, they will crush us in less than one hour. So much for the Demons of the North.”

The Vasaath snorted, as well, but then it dawned on him; all his life, he had strived to be better and greater than other civilisations, despite the fear and the taunts he had received from others. He had tried to show that the Kasenon was fair and beautiful; it had saved millions of lost souls through the aeons, and brought them purpose and community. He had strived to prove that he was no savage, no demon, but an intelligent man with ambition and empathy. He had strived to prove that he did not want to pillage and rape and murder—only to save and redeem. He wanted to bring justice and equality for all, not just the rich, and he wanted to create a better world. Humans, however, would never see it like that. To them, he was a Demon. To them, he was Darkness, and Death—and mainlanders were superstitious people. He looked at Kasethen and said, “we _are_ the Demons of the North. Let it be known.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“They think they are facing real demons, Kasethen,” said Vasaath. “It won’t matter how diplomatic and good we try to be, they will never see us as anything but monsters, and I am tired of trying to convince them otherwise.”

Kasethen stared at him, perplexed. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying,” the Vasaath said and turned to him, “that if it is demons they believe they’ll face, then let it be demons they face. Gather the men.”

“But sir, I don’t—”

“I said,” the Vasaath growled, “gather the men.”

Kasethen did as told, and when they were all gathered in the courtyard, the Vasaath set his jaw tight. This was a leap, he knew that—what he was about to propose was against everything he stood for, but he would not let the humans win. He would not die on that battlefield. “I know you all think this might very well be your last night in this life,” he said to his men. “I thought so too before I realised that we have a weapon that can bring down empires without a single fighting man—fear.” He saw the confusion in his men’s faces, but he pressed on. “Mainlanders are fearful of us. We are the monsters in all the stories they tell their children. We are the Demons of the North that devour them in their beds. The men outside those walls,” he said as he pointed towards the city, “they fear us. They’ve always feared us. But if they defeat us now, they will never fear us again. We cannot have that.” He tightened his jaw and looked out over the soldiers. “I will ask a great deal from you, not only military wise, but also morally. I know we have strived to be better than them, to be proper and correct and play by the rules, but they don’t care about that. So why should we? We came to conquer, not to fold. They call us murderous monsters, so let’s be murderous monsters. Violence runs in our blood, and I say, let it boil. Let them know that we are the Demons of the North.” Now, he saw the spark he had been looking for, the fire in his men’s eyes. “ _Saathenaan_ , are you with me?”

The call was unified, decisive. The _Saathenaan_ was with him. Kasethen, however, was clearly not, but he said nothing.

“I will need fifty men,” the Vasaath continued. “You need to be swift, strong, and stealthy. But most importantly—you need to be willing to do what it takes to strike fear into the hearts of men. What we will do tonight will echo for centuries to come.” He clenched his fists. “The council will meet in my quarters, and at sundown, I need fifty men ready for departure.”

“ _Aamon-at an Vasaath_!” the men called in unison, and the Vasaath nodded respectfully and left for his tent, followed by his council once more. There was much to be prepared and very little time to do so, but it needed to be done or this gambit would be fruitless.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Aamon-at an Vasaath** – “honour to our Leader of Strength and Protection”  
 **Kaseraad** – _spies_ ; “the shadow of the people”  
 **Rasaath** – _officer_ ; dutiful soldier; true soldier  
 **Saathenaan** – elite warriors; “deepest strength”


	43. The Demons of the North: IX

** IX **

  
The sun was already setting. Juniper had lingered in Neema’s abode and shared her supper. There was still no news about what was going on, and Juniper had a strange feeling inside her belly. Something was afoot, she felt it in every fibre of her body. Suddenly, a soldier entered Neema’s tent. He bowed and said something in their tongue, and Juniper could see the woman’s confusion before she nodded, rose, and began working with her herbs and concoctions.

“Lady Juniper,” said the soldier, his accent strong. “The Vasaath has requested your presence.”

Juniper looked at him, bewildered, and nodded. “Tell him I will be there shortly.”

The soldier grunted and nodded before he left.

Turning to Neema, Juniper asked, “what did he say? Any news?”

“They’re going into the fray. They want me to make Dreamgrass powder,” she said, and when she saw Juniper’s clueless eyes, she sighed. “It’s a powerful muscle relaxer from the heartlands of Kasarath.” She tied a piece of fabric over her nose and mouth and took a bundle of dried grass from the ceiling and worked it into a fine powder. “It’s the only thing strong enough to sedate a Kas. We use it when healing battle wounds. Don’t come any closer!” She held her hand out to keep Juniper from looking over her shoulder. “This powder can cause a large Kas total numbness for a few hours, but it’s too strong for us humans.”

“Why would they want you to make this?” Juniper asked.

“Well,” Neema muttered from under her mask, “the only reason I could think of is that they expect there to be many wounded. Away with you now, girl. Don’t keep the Vasaath waiting.”

Juniper nodded and hurried away. She felt her heart in her throat as she walked through the camp. When she reached the Vasaath’s tent, he said nothing as he took her into his arms and kissed her. She said, “please, don’t fight them. I don’t want you to die!”

The Vasaath hummed and gently caressed her hair. “I am a warrior. I must fight. But don’t worry, _menaan_. I will come back to you.”

She looked at him, her eyes brimmed with tears. “How? You are grossly outnumbered, and—”

He shushed her gently and kissed her again. “I have never lost a fight, and I certainly won’t lose this one.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because nothing could ever keep me from you,” he whispered and slowly touched the lacing at her back. “Lie with me, Juniper, before I go.” His voice was lustful, rough, impatient. “Give yourself to me, give me your resolve.”

She felt entranced by his touch, by his voice, and by his kisses, and she pressed out a breathless, “yes,” before she was lifted into his arms and carried into his bed. He was not as gentle as he was before, nor as patient. He was agitated—charged—but she felt the desire surge in her so strongly, she was somehow relieved he wasn’t gentle. Perhaps, she thought, they both felt the looming threat of never being able to touch each other again. There was no time for careful preparations, no time for consideration. This time, there was pain and there was fear. Her desire, however, was searing, and she embraced him with dedication and certainty. The fleeting pain was nothing in comparison to the fear of losing him. Their love was raging, passionate, their needs urgent—and their release was so strong, so powerful, it sent them both soaring, one after the other.

Juniper was numb and fatigued, but held the Vasaath tightly, as though she thought, deep inside, that if she held him tight enough, he wouldn’t go. But he did. He kissed her longingly, regretfully, and whispered words she could not understand, before he slipped into the darkness of the night to join his men. Juniper tried to listen to what was said out on the courtyard, but she could hear nothing but her own breaths.

She rose a while later, washed herself, and made sure to drink the potion. The thought that he might have planted a child in her as a gift made her almost pass on the drink, but she came to her senses and drank it anyway. It tasted just as awful as she remembered it, and she washed it down with wine. She could not sleep—she was too worried for that—and resorted to drinking tea in the Vasaath’s quarters to keep herself awake.

An hour or so after the Vasaath had left, she was joined by Kasethen who seemed just as worried as she. Juniper offered him some tea, and they sat together, waiting.

“I am too worried to go outside and listen for battle,” said she after a moment’s silence.

“I must admit,” muttered Kasethen, “that I’m not too keen on it, either.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Juniper. “Why would my father attack in the dark? It makes no sense! That would worsen their chances considerably!”

“Your father wants to attack at first light,” said Kasethen. “He sent a message earlier telling us that we had until dawn to surrender. But the Vasaath isn’t going to surrender, and he isn’t going to wait until they are ready. He will use the dark to his advantage.”

“What is their plan?” she asked.

Kasethen sighed. “A stealth attack. It’s best you don’t know the rest.”

Juniper glared at him. “Why?”

His golden eyes were filled with pain and regret. “It nothing for a lady like yourself to hear.”

“Kasethen,” she said and placed her hand atop his. “I beg you, tell me.”

The man sighed deeply and told her the horrible plan that had emerged from the darkness of the Vasaath’s mind, and she shuddered at the thought of it. There was little she could say once he had finished explaining to her the dreadful events that were planned, and she knew not whether she wished for it to be successful, or if she wished that those men would be spared from the nightmare.

It was a gruelling night, worse than any bad dream, and when the sun was about to rise, she waited impatiently for the general’s safe return—or the beating drums of the City Guard and the brass horns of Westbridge. But there was nothing. No drums, no horns, no general. When she stepped out into the courtyard and watched the sun slowly rise in the east, the morning was quiet. She looked at Kasethen who had followed her outside, and he seemed as confused as her.

“What does this mean?” she asked, but the man just shook his head, bewildered. Disappointed, terrified, sad, and exhausted, she let her shoulders slump down as she said, “I need to sleep. When I wake up, I suppose things will be different. It’s just a matter of how.”

Kasethen frowned but nodded. “Yes, we shall see.”

Juniper couldn’t even cry as she lay down in his bed. There was a feeling inside of her that she couldn’t be rid of, the feeling that something was brewing—like a storm in the distance growing ever so close, dangerous and wild. She slipped into a troubled sleep, and awoke sometime later by the thunderous cheers of the soldiers in the camp, and she sat up. Her heart beat loudly in her ears, and she wanted to run out there, into the general’s arms, but she remained put. Her legs would simply not move, and then, after what felt like an eternity, the canvas parted and there he was. She was thrilled to see him alive and well, but there was something different about him. Perhaps it was because she knew what he had set out to do, but she could not see it as anything else but a dark aura of Death around him. He walked closer, stripping from his armour as he did and dropping the items on the floor—it was not like him to be so careless, and it frightened her. His eyes were burning with victory, but he looked tired, dismal.

“We won,” he said, and lowered himself down next to her. “We sent the Westbridge dogs off with their tails between their legs. I am the Demon now, and they will never forget it.” He kissed her, slowly, and looked into her eyes. “I told you I would come back to you.”

Juniper sought in his face something she could understand, but he was a changed man—she prayed it was only momentary. She kissed him back, smiled, and said, “yes, you came back.”

He moved closer to her, his face weary. Sighing, he repeated, “I am the Demon now.”

“Hush now,” she whispered softly and gently caressed his face. “Rest for a while.”

A deep sigh was released from the depth of his body, as if he let go of a brutal weight, and he placed his head against her bosom. She held him tenderly, cradled him like a child in her embrace, but there was an itch inside of her that she could not scratch. How much was fair in war and how much could a man do before he was broken beyond all repair?

* * *


	44. The Demons of the North: X

** X **

  
William Cornwall, Duke of Westbridge, was a pious man. God-fearing and righteous. When he learned that the sweet and innocent Lady Juniper had been kidnapped by the demons, he knew he could not leave such a fragile creature to such beasts. Moreover, the lady was promised to his son and heir, and she was thus an essential part in carrying on his legacy—the other noble daughters in the Free Cities were perhaps beauties, but they did not provide the riches of Winter Harbour. Rescuing the lady was thus of the utmost importance, not only for his legacy, but also to grant him a comfortable retirement. Fighting the demons were, in turn, a holy calling. Never in his life had he been presented with such an important challenge, and he knew that he had to face it.

The odds were in their favour—the Builder would guide them and aid them, of course—and he had faith in his men. Although many criticised him for not having Nornish men in his army, people who knew what it meant to be fighting for the North, William was confident that his men felt the calling just as he did.

In his tent, he kneeled in front of his altar and the Hammer of Edred, and prayed. He asked the Builder for strength and courage, and that evening, he felt the Builder in him. It was as though he inhaled the Builder’s spirit, and he knew that at first light, when they launched their attack against the foul demons, they would do so with the Builder’s protection, and they would prevail.

“My lord, the preparations have been made and the army will be ready to march at dawn.”

“Thank you, Callahan.” William kissed the Hammer and rose before looking at his guard. “I hope the men will get some sleep, at least. Tomorrow will be trying, but we will be triumphant.”

Sir Callahan was a serious man, with a serious brow, and tonight was no different. His dark eyes were shadowed by his heavy frown. “My lord, the men are… disheartened. Most of them didn’t even believe the Grey Ones truly existed, until now.” He sighed. “There have been whispers of deserters.”

William narrowed his eyes. “And what have these whispers said? I thought Sir Donovan had his men under control?”

Callahan clenched his jaw tightly. “They’re not convinced our enemy is real, sir. They are all wondering if you’ve sent them on a fool’s errand this far up north just before the autumn rains. They would rather be home with their families, sir. Some of them have lands they need to tend to before the flood comes.”

William felt anger rise within. “They will do as I’ve ordered them to! They will do what I _pay_ them to do!”

Callahan kept calm and sighed heavily. “Yes, but my lord, you haven’t paid them yet.”

The Duke clenched his jaw. “Of course I haven’t. What fool would pay such men _before_ a fight? They will get their riches when they return, as promised.” The guard nodded, but William could see that he wasn’t convinced and said, “their reward will be greater this time. They will be rewarded by the Builder himself.”

Keeping his thoughts to himself, even though William saw that there were strong ones at hand, Callahan nodded.

“Where is my son?” William asked. “Bring him here.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Duke poured himself a glass of wine and sat down to wait. When Christopher entered, he was in a foul mood, which wasn’t very surprising. He poured himself a glass and sat down.

“You wanted to see me, Father?” he drawled.

“Yes,” William sighed. “You’ve met the demons yourself, you know they are real. What is your assessment of this situation?”

Christopher sighed. “Father, they aren’t _demons_. They’re just beasts, like Arlington says.”

“Lord Arlington also says that his daughter has been kidnapped,” said William and narrowed his eyes. “But you don’t believe that.”

His son glared at him, his blue eyes dark. “Of course I don’t. She’s a collaborator, you’ve heard her speak of them.”

William frowned. “So you think this is a fool’s errand?”

“No.” Christopher swirled the wine in his glass and said, “Juniper Arlington is our key to the Winter Sea. We need her. I don’t care if she’s a treacherous bitch—I’ll put a son in her the moment we’re wed, give the boy to a wet nurse the moment he’s born, and then I don’t care what befalls the lady. Accidents happen every day.”

“The Builder hears everything, my son,” William muttered.

“And the Builder’s punishment for treason is worse than anything I could do to the Arlington girl,” Christopher scoffed.

“She’s just a girl,” William said. “It must be terrible for her being in the clutches of those monsters! I pray the Builder protects her.”

Christopher said nothing about his father’s prayers, but he did very little to hide his resentment. “You give those beasts too much credit, Father. Tomorrow, they will bleed just like any other mortal, you’ll see.” He swept the rest of the wine in one go and rose. “Sleep well, Father. At dawn, we’ll cut those bastards down, and Noxborough will owe us everything.”

William nodded. Such ambition… he had inherited that from his mother, no doubt. William was not lacking ambition, no indeed, but his wife Rosamund was a fierce, god-fearing woman. Had the Builder wanted women to lead, she would be a great leader. Christopher was indeed hers. William smiled. “Good night, my son. Tomorrow, we will win.”

He had forgotten how dark the nights had become and almost tripped in the blackness as he blew out his candle. He had his armour prepared, his sword was sharpened, and his horse was fresh. He was ready for the fight ahead of him. He had been a holy warrior in his younger days, but had not seen battle for over thirty years. This, he thought, would be his most important one. He fell asleep blissfully, knowing that the Builder was watching from beyond the Void, and knew that tomorrow would bring a new era of peace and righteousness.

He awoke with a jerk, a strange feeling in his body. It was a prickling sensation, as if his whole body tingled into numbness. He tried to sit, but his body was too tired for that—he could barely lift his fingers. Despite just waking, he could feel that something wasn’t right. The numbness was spreading, and he could barely turn his head. Only his eyes seemed to be able to move. Panicked, he tried to call for Callahan, but his mouth was dry, his lips wouldn’t part, and no sound escaped him.

A dark, cruel, and inhuman laugh echoed around him. Fear arose in the Duke’s chest, like a searing pain through the numbness. The demons had come. In his mind, he prayed for the Builder’s protection, for his grace, but as sparks flared in the darkness, he could spy a pair of burning, yellow eyes in a grey, terrifying face. When a torch lit up, the beast appeared—his yellow eyes were scorching, his sharp teeth were bared in a terrifying grin, and his build was unlike anything William had ever seen before. This was a demon, straight from the Netherworld, without any doubt. He tried to scream, but all he could croak out were small, choking sounds.

The demon scoffed and moved towards him. Then, when the light flickered, William could see something in the demons other hand—golden locks glimmering in the firelight. When the creature raised the arm, William blinked away tears that immediately flooded his eyes; in the demons large hand, was the severed head of his dear son. No, he thought, this could not be real! This was but a nightmare. A cruel one, but this could simply not be true. The Builder would never allow such gruesomeness.

“Your boy cried like a little child when I came for him,” growled the demon. “He didn’t even put up a fight.” It snorted. “It reminded me of how soft human flesh truly is, just like when I struck him that day… how fragile you all are. I barely had to graze him with my sword before his head came off, and he cried no more.” The demon tossed Christopher’s head to William, with a snicker, and it landed just beside his own head.

The Duke cried, and if he could have made a sound, he would have wailed out his misery. His son’s dim, blue eyes stared at him, and he could see the fear and terror in them. William had to divert his gaze—this wasn’t real…

The demon stepped in front of the altar and said, “what is this?” A large hand with black, clawed fingers reached for the golden Hammer, and William winced as the demon picked it up as though it weighed less than nothing. “This is important to you, is it? You think your god will save you?” The demon’s terrible smirk reappeared, and it lowered its face so it was only inches away from William’s. “Where is your god now, old man?” As the demon straightened, he placed the torch on a stand next to the bed and grabbed hold of the Hammer. He broke it in half with a terrifying growl. It simply snapped, like a piece of wood, in the mountainous beast’s hands. The demon threw the pieces onto the ground and snorted. “Your god has forsaken you here. Your god had forsaken this city. Go home, don’t look back, and you might find him again. You’ll certainly need him, because I’ll be coming for you one day.” The demon turned away, grabbed the torch, and snuffed out the light, leaving William again in complete darkness. He tried to scream again, tried to move, but the numbness had taken him over, and soon, his mind, too, slipped away into the empty blackness.

When he awoke, he flung his eyes open, drew a sharp breath, and sat up. He was drenched in sweat and his heart thudded violently against his chest. He looked about the room—it was light, and still. Morning had come. He looked at his side, fearing he might see his son’s head beside him, but the bed was empty save for him and his bedding. There was blood on his pillow, but a straining sensation at the skin by his nose brought his hand to wipe it. Dried blood. His nose must have bled in the night.

He tried to calm himself, calm his heart, knowing it had all been a terrible nightmare. He was trembling, and without being able to control himself, he started crying. They were partly tears of horror, but also tears of relief. But he wondered—had he missed the march? Had they all overslept? He threw the blanket away and realised that he had wet himself. “Fuck!” he muttered and quickly stood. His nightshirt was drenched with sweat, blood, and his own soil, and he muttered angrily as he reached for another linen shirt. Suddenly, he froze. There on the ground lay his golden Hammer of Edred, snapped in half. He felt the fear and panic rise in him again as the trembling intensified. He quickly backed away and almost fell. “Where is my son?” He breathed, looked about, and shouted, “where is my son?” He fell, struggled back onto his feet, and rushed out of the tent. The sun stood high—not yet noon, but well into midmorning—and there, just outside his tent, on a wooden pole, was his son’s broken body tied, his head hanging by the hair from a rope around his waist. The crows were already feasting on his lifeless form. William fell to his knees and cried.

“My lord! My lord, wake up! My lo—” Callahan came running towards him, only in his breeches and linen shirt, and the crows croaked and scattered. He paused just in front of the scene, and William reached for his guard.

“It was the demons!” he wailed. “They did this! My _son_!”

Callahan stared at Christopher’s brokenness, but steeled himself and helped the Duke to stand. “My lord, half the men have already deflected. Sir Donovan is gathering the rest to turn back.”

William could barely control his own voice, but he grabbed hold of his guard and said, “this city is cursed, Callahan!”

“Sir, you have no men left here,” Callahan said and took a sturdy grip of the Duke’s arm. “I am… deeply sorry for you loss, sir, but you cannot stay here.”

William sobbed and looked at his son. “They killed my boy…”

“They’ve killed and display about one hundred men, sir,” Callahan said. “There were witnesses, but they say that they could not alert anyone. They say they were like prisoners in their own bodies, and no one wants to stay and fight anymore. They’re heading back to Illyria, sir. They have abandoned you.”

William snapped his head at Callahan. “They came to me too, Callahan! It was dark magic! I could make no sound, move no muscle. It…” He sobbed harder. “It threw his head at me… it threw my son’s head at me, and I could do _nothing_!”

“My lord!” Callahan’s voice was hard, gathered. “I understand your grief. I do. I lost my boys many years ago. But you have to steel yourself! We should ride back to Westbridge, now. We will send men to retrieve Lord Christopher’s body for his burial, but we cannot stay here! The Grey Ones might be on the march as we speak, your life is in danger!”

William hitched a breath, still trembling, but Callahan was right. He nodded and returned to his tent. Callahan helped him dress, and when he had his armour on, they left to find a pair of horses by the city walls. While walking through the camp, William found it almost completely abandoned. Those still left scurried about, getting themselves ready to leave.

Callahan suddenly stopped, just as they had nearly reached the end of the camp, and flung his arm out to hinder the Duke. “Let’s find horses somewhere else, sir.”

“Why?” William demanded, but when Callahan wouldn’t answer, the Duke forced his way past his guard and stepped forwards. When he had passed the last tents in front of the wall, he stopped dead in his tracks. The sound of hundreds of crows was the first that hit him, then the smell, that awful smell of death, and he had to cover his nose and mouth. Then, he saw the scene, and gawked in horror; along the wall hung more than thirty Noxborough soldiers, split open from throat to gut, festering in the morning sun. William followed the gruesome sight of the blood and intestines that had poured down the stone and onto the ground. It was then he realised, that on the ground, broken and maimed bodies were displayed in what appeared to be a pattern. As he inspected it, the coldness that he had felt the entire morning made him lose his breath. On the ground, the corpses formed the distinct shape of a hammer. William stumbled backwards, and had it not been for Callahan, he would have fallen.

“Come now, sir,” the guard muttered. “We need to find horses elsewhere, quickly.”

William agreed, and they hurried away from the scene. He had his heart in his throat, and he hurried all he could. His armour was heavy, and he was soon out of breath, but then, as if sent from the Builder himself, two saddled horses ran towards them through the camp. Callahan quickly stopped them and helped the Duke to mount one before he mounted the other. William was relieved to finally be on his way, but he stopped just as he could catch a glimpse of the pole his son’s body was tied to. He swallowed. “Someone must take him down before the crows have stripped him of all his flesh.”

“I’ll see to it,” Callahan said, “but we need to go, now.”

“Cornwall!” Both William and his guard turned their heads to the sudden call, and saw Lord Arlington, his son, and a few of his men ride towards them. Lord Arlington’s face was almost purple, and he barked, “where are your men?”

Callahan urged his horse in front of William’s and said, “they have deflected. The battle is over.”

Lord Arlington looked as though he was about to explode. “The battle is over? You fools! The beasts are desperate! We have them just where we want them!”

“They killed my _son_!” William bellowed from his horse. “They used dark magic and killed over a hundred men, and we could do nothing!”

“You have five _thousand_ fucking men!” Arlington spat. “We lost a hundred, but that is nothing! Stop being such a cunt and gather your men!”

William glared at the Duke of Noxborough, but all he could see was a cursed man. He shook his head. “No. I am sorry, my friend, but Westbridge won’t support you in this.”

Duke Arlington could not contain his anger and spat, “and what about my daughter?”

William sighed. “I will pray for the girl, but this city is doomed. Even the Builder knows it. Farewell, Duke Arlington. Lord Arlington. I hope we shall meet again.” He then turned his horse about and spurred the animal on, with Callahan next to him. As the horse began galloping, Lord Arlington shouted at him, calling him a coward, a traitor, and a cunt, over and over again. William felt relief wash over him like a blessing. His heart was still heavy with grief, indeed, but he knew that he would find solace in the Builder’s grace once he had left this wretched city. Then suddenly, a sharp pain hit his neck, and blood filled his throat. He tried to breathe, but he only inhaled his own warm blood in doing so. He fell off his horse, and landed with a painful thud on the ground, knocking the breath out of him. His hands clawed at his throat, and he felt an arrow lodged there. Callahan called for him, and soon he was pulled into his guard’s arms.

“My lord!” he barked while placing his hands at the Duke’s throat to stop the bleeding. “No… no, no, no, no…”

William felt the blood gush out through his wound and down his throat. He couldn’t breathe, he struggled for air. He was getting light-headed, dizzy. He pulled at Callahan, desperately pleading for him to save his life—to do _something_.

Callahan tried his best and did what he could to stop the blood from flowing. “Don’t give up, my lord! Don’t give up!”

William pulled himself closer to Callahan, his closest and most trusted advisor and protector, and looked at him pleadingly. He felt strangely cold, and the pain was no longer burning—he could barely feel anything at all. He did not want to die, but as he lay on the ground, drowning in his own blood, he knew death was imminent. As he was fading, he was struck by the harsh fact that there was no light waiting for him. The Builder had deserted him. Slowly, he slipped away, out of this world and into the eternal darkness.

* * *


	45. The Dark Before the Dawn: I

** I **

  
There was a strange stalemate between the Vasaath and the Duke of Noxborough after that fateful night, but neither of them was willing to lay down his weapon. The Vasaath and his men had stayed until morning and watched as the humans awoke from their numb sleep only to find the message the Vasaath had sent them in blood. He had been very relieved to see that the humans were so very predictable—with the displayed bodies and the testimony from the ones they had spared, the word had spread like wildfire through the camp, and most men had been quick to leave while they were still alive. It had worked even better than anyone could have imagined—the Vasaath had suspected there to be at least a thousand soldiers left from Westbridge, but they all left the camp that morning. He never saw what happened afterwards, but his spies had brought whispers of open war between Noxborough and Westbridge after the Duke of Westbridge had been killed as he tried to escape.

The days that passed after that night were tense, but as days turned to weeks, and the stalemate was still in effect, brows were beginning to furrow.

The event seemed to have changed the mood in the camp, and the Vasaath had seen it most clearly in Juniper. She had become reserved when near him, almost as if she was wary of him. It angered him, frustrated him, and saddened him. He knew not how he could make it better, how he could make her look at him as she used to, and his frustration only seemed to make things worse. He tried to contain himself, not to make the girl suffer from his emotional turmoil, but he found it difficult to be tolerant and respectful. He wanted to have her close, but she didn’t seem to want to be near him at all. She didn’t physically push him away, but he could tell that she was hesitant—and it was all changed from that night.

A fortnight after the gambit, when they had their supper, he asked her why she was being so elusive, why she was avoiding him. He tried to keep his voice calm, not to accuse her, but it came out harsher than anticipated.

The girl looked away from him as she said, “I’m not avoiding you, sir. Why would you think that?”

“You won’t look at me, for one.”

She looked up at him, but he could see the suspicion in her silver eyes.

The Vasaath sighed. “Your father and brother are both alive, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

She smiled, but it was only half-heartedly. “I know they are.”

He clenched his jaw, truly trying his best to keep his temper under control. “Then what is bothering you? Why are you afraid?”

She shook her head. “I’m not afraid.”

“Disappointed, then.”

“I am not disappointed. There is nothing the matter with me, sir.”

“ _Daan_ ,” he growled lowly. “Lies. Don’t lie to me, Juniper.”

The girl tensed and diverted her gaze.

The Vasaath sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just…” He tightened his jaw and moved to sit next to her. “I just wish to understand. What has happened?” He carefully touched her hair, pulled it over her shoulder, and caressed her back.

The girl wrung her hands together and looked at him. “Nothing. Nothing has happened.”

“Then why are you different?” he murmured.

She shook her head and leaned against him. “I’m not.” When she gently pressed her lips against his, he pulled her in and held her close.

He claimed her lips and let her know that he still wanted her, perhaps more now than ever, and that he wanted her no harm. He whispered into her ear, “do you regret the outcome?”

She shook her head and they kissed again. Her hands sought their way to his hair as he pulled her onto his lap. Desire was surging through him like fire, and he had her at his waist as he rose. His lips rarely left her body as he undressed her and it was the first time since that night she had allowed him to touch her like this. Despite his urgent need, desire, and raging lust, he was patient and attentive, making sure he granted her as much pleasure as he knew she would grant him, and he was thrilled to see her receiving it with gratitude. He dared to be bold, knowing she was resilient enough, and he then took her with as much honour and reverence as he could, still with intent and assertiveness—and the reward was sweet release, his as well as hers.

Afterwards, he held her close, with his chest pressed against her back and his face buried in her hair. He could lie there forever, with his arms wrapped around the girl. He had been so naive, thinking he would only need one instance of recklessness, carelessness, to overcome his desires for her, but he realised now, after being starved of her for fourteen long days, that he would never be rid of his needs. He cared not if he was reckless, or if he broke rules and ancient traditions. What they shared was beyond any of that; he had her again, and that was all that mattered to him.

“I know what you did,” she suddenly said.

The Vasaath frowned, not quite understanding her. “What?”

“That night, during the ambush,” she said. “I know what you did.”

He suddenly felt his heart drop. How did she know? Of course she would disapprove of his methods—but this was war. “Who told you?”

Turning her head ever so slightly, she said, “does it matter?”

He wanted to say yes, that he would wring the neck of whoever caused such a rift between them, but he muttered, “no, I suppose not.”

“Would you have ever told me?”

“One day, perhaps.”

“Either you’d tell me,” she muttered, “or I’d hear all the gruesome stories of how the demons chased away the famous soldiers of Westbridge the night before certain victory.”

He set his jaw tight and grunted. “It’s war, Juniper. Does it matter how men die?”

“Yes, it does!” she spat and sat up. “Those men didn’t die honourable deaths! They had their throats cut in their sleep—a sleep induced by strong foreign herbs, no less!”

The Vasaath sighed and turned to his back, placing his hands behind his head. “Death is death, Juniper. It doesn’t matter how a man dies, but die, he must.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t matter to you,” she snapped, “but those men believed that their deaths would determine their afterlives, and you robbed them of that!”

“They are dead!” he barked as he, too, sat up. “It’s rather simple—it was either them, or us. We killed a hundred of them, yes, and they wouldn’t hesitate to kill a hundred of us. Trust me when I tell you that many more would have died had we not done what we did.” Anger was hot in his chest, and he could see that it was in her as well, but she refrained from saying anything. He sighed. “War is terrible, Juniper. There is no way around it and there is no use denying it. You have a gentle heart, and I admire that, but gentle hearts don’t win any wars.”

She shook her head. “I never wanted war.”

“I know.” He sighed and reached for her, but she rose and put her shift on.

“I need to wash and cleanse,” she muttered.

The Vasaath huffed. “Will you come back?”

She was quiet for a moment, her arms crossed over her chest, before she said, “yes.” Then she disappeared through the canvas.

The Vasaath sighed deeply and fell down on the pillows again. He wasn’t used to such frustration, nor was he used to people defying him or criticising him. Even less so was he used to being criticised by someone he wanted so ardently to accept him. He wondered about what she had said, if he had robbed those men of an honourable death, but he simply couldn’t agree. If he could choose, he would rather die on the battlefield than having his throat slit in his sleep, yes—but people rarely had the luxury of choosing their deaths unless they took death into their own hands. He wondered, however, if the girl saw him differently now when she knew to what lengths he was willing to go to win this war. When he returned to her that night, was it fear he had seen in her face? Did she see him as a demon, as well? Had he turned savage in her eyes? Indeed, if he had had a choice, he would rather have beaten them on the field, face to face, honourably—but he had no choice. Only a fool would think that two hundred men could beat six thousand soldiers in an open battle, and losing was not an option, she had to see that! He had done what he did to ensure the survival of his people, and he was not ashamed of it. And yet, fear was spreading in his heart.

He waited for her patiently. He knew she needed to calm herself, and perhaps she needed to think about what had been said, but she had said that she would come back—so he waited. She did return, eventually, but she said nothing, only crawled under the furs and made herself comfortable. The Vasaath carefully put his arm around her, and when she did not object, he pulled her to him. He wondered whether he should say something, or ask anything, but the moment he felt her fingers intertwine with his, he exhaled the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. They said nothing more that night and the Vasaath slept dreamlessly until morning.

* * *


	46. The Dark Before the Dawn: II

** II **

  
“So you think you can sneak into my city to assassinate me?” Richmond growled through the bars at the pathetic man in the cell.

The prisoner, ill-fed and robe-clad, spat at his direction. “You will pay for what you did to our Duke! In the name of the Builder, you will pay!”

“And what is he going to do from his grave?” Richmond smirked and turned his nose up.

“Westbridge never forgets,” the prisoner hissed. “You and your children will all be hunted for your sins!”

“Oh, the horror!” Richmond brought his hands to his face in fake terror and stomped on the ground. “Westbridge is nothing but a shit hole, and the only reason it even exists is because of its bridge and its toll! There is no army left in Westbridge, the Duke is dead, his heir is dead… what the _fuck_ do you think such a shadow of a city could ever do to me?”

“Lord Arthur is Duke now,” spat the prisoner, “and he will avenge his father’s death and bring the wrath of the Builder upon you all!”

Richmond huffed. “That brat is what? Twelve? He couldn’t hurt a maggot even if he tried.” The man behind bars was a commoner, a pauper—how dared he run at the Duke of Noxborough with a knife in hand? How dared he shout that his actions were in the name of Westbridge? In the name of the Builder? How dared that child Duke send such an amateur to do a man’s job? But he knew what this man was. This man was a devotee, an acolyte of the Vault and the Pillars—clearly, the Architects did not like having a devoted ally killed. But they would have to do better than to send a half-starved man in sandals and robes if they wanted to kill the Duke of Noxborough. With a huff, Richmond turned to the guards and said, “execute him.”

“But sir,” said one of the guards, “this is a man of the Vault. Shouldn’t he be tried by the Architects?”

Richmond snapped his head at the guard and growled, “he tried to kill me. If you disobey me, you will commit high treason.”

The guard swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Richmond sighed and fixed his coat. “Be quick about it.”

He knew his son would not agree to his methods, as he was very keen on voicing once Richmond came upstairs and into the study. Sebastian was restlessly pacing the room, and he was not happy. He glared at his father and asked, “what are you going to do to him?”

“What do you think I’ll do to him?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Imprison him?”

“Don’t be naive, boy,” Richmond muttered. “He tried to murder me. He must die.”

“But Father,” Sebastian said, “he is a man of the Valve. It would be against the law to execute him without a trial.”

“It is also against the law to attack a Duke, no matter in what dukedom,” said Richmond.

His son glared at him. “You attacked a Duke.”

Richmond took a deep breath and poured himself a glass of wine. He knew he had broken the King’s Accords, and he knew it was a serious offence—but his city, his dukedom, was under attack. He would do whatever he had to or order to save it. “I did. He betrayed me. He left us to get fucked from behind by those beasts. What would you have done? Ignored such an insult?”

“What does Garret say of it?”

Richmond rolled his eyes. “Garret doesn’t need to know everything.”

“He would advise against it,” Sebastian pointed out.

Richmond huffed.

“If we survive the Grey Ones, then you’ve launched us into another war,” Sebastian muttered. “Riverport will rally at Westbridge’s side, as will both Kingshaven and Eastshore since you’ve broken such a sacred rule.”

“Ravensgate will aid us,” Richmond muttered.

Sebastian laughed out loud. “The shit hole on the other side of Nornest? Yes, that’s a brilliant idea! Why not meet in the middle, then, quite literally?”

“Don’t be so cynical,” said Richmond. “You’re far too young for that.”

“I’m not being cynical, Father,” Sebastian spat. “I’m being realistic! If we survive the invaders, we’ll have no defences left when the others come for us!”

“If we survive the invaders,” said Richmond, “we’ll be gods. The other cities won’t dare to attack us.”

Sebastian shook his head. “It’s all _if_ we survive. After what happened, the men aren’t that keen on fighting. They’re afraid.” The boy sighed. “I don’t know what they used, but whatever it was, it was strong. If they use that against us again, there won’t be a fight. It will be a slaughter.”

Richmond slammed his glass onto the table and shouted, “damn those dogs! They are killable, mortal! They used a dirty trick, that’s all. I doubt they have any others up their sleeves—if they did, why haven’t they taken over the city yet? They’ve been here for months!”

“They steal people from the lower districts every day,” sighed Sebastian. “Their support from the people— _our_ people—grows stronger every day. They take advantage of people’s suffering. Soon enough, they will have doubled their army by poaching our own people. Perhaps they’re simply just biding their time?”

Richmond sighed, frustrated and angry. “Well, while they are doing that, we need to prove to our men that they aren’t demons—that they are killable.”

“How?”

“It’s quite simple, my son,” said Richmond. “We have to kill one, for everyone to see.”

* * *


	47. The Dark Before the Dawn: III

** III **

  
Juniper had thought quite a bit about death since that night— _the Night of the Demons_ , as some of the converters so cleverly called it. For a while after the ambush, Juniper had been angry, mortified, and disappointed—she never thought the Vasaath would do something so dishonourable and terrible. Without being able to control it, she shied away from him; it was natural, as if her body acted without being told to. She didn’t know why she feared him—she knew he had fought many battles, and lived to tell the tale—but she did know that her opinion of him would never be the same.

Perhaps she had just been naive and blind; perhaps she had let her feelings get the better of her and turned him into the heroic man he was in her dreams, like the knight in the fairytales; or, perhaps she simply didn’t want to recognise the fact that he was a warrior, and had killed many men in his life. It wasn’t, however, so much the killing in itself that bothered her as it was the way it had been done. To a man like him, it would be impossible to understand the horrors and nightmares the children of the Free Cities and Illyria had to endure; not only were there terrible stories about the Vasaath’s people, but there were all sorts of terrible tales of the beasts and shadows of the Netherworld. Worse than that, were the stories of the deities the Builder had banished into the dark realm, those who always sought to claw their way out—Evil, Darkness, Madness… to be touched by one was to be touched by them all, and cursed. The Vasaath would never understand what it was like to believe, to truly believe, such horrors. His spectacle made use of their inherent fear in a most nefarious way, and he did not seem remorseful at all.

She did understand, of course, that it was a necessary move for them to make in order to survive the ordeal. It had been a matter of life and death. For that, she could not blame him. When he told her, quite harshly, that had he not done what he did, many more would have died, she had very little to say against it. He was right, naturally, and that was perhaps the worst insight of them all—there would always be casualties in war. She had lived on the juvenile hopes of a peaceful resolution, but that had been a foolish dream. The war would end when the one side triumphed over the other. There was no other solution. She had realised then, while lying in his arms and listening to his sleeping breaths after that conversation, that it wasn’t the general who had changed—it was she.

Over the next few days, she struggled with that realisation. War had only been something she had read about in books and heard of in tales, and now, war had come to her; of course she was changed. How could she stay the same? Fewer and fewer people from the city came to seek refuge with the Kas, and it was evident that the Night of the Demons had already inspired dark tales—only, this time, they didn’t have to fabricate the gruesome details. When the general said that he had become the Demon, it was not in jest. The people of the city truly believed it, and Juniper could not blame them. Had she not known him as intimately as she did, she would believe it, as well.

Sometimes, while studying his face as he concentrated on reading or writing, she found herself believing it all the same—perhaps, she thought, he _was_ the Demon. Perhaps he _was_ Darkness, the malevolent deity himself. But she always stopped herself, thinking that the Builder would not let her love such a creature, if any of them were truly real.

As she had realised that she was the one who had changed, she noticed how very little the Vasaath had. He was still the same stoic, stern, and decisive person he’d always been, even though she now knew he wasn’t in Noxborough to save people. She had thought, from the very beginning, that he had come to teach the people of the mainland the way of the Kasenon. True enough, she was aware that he wanted to do so by conquering the city, but she had never before thought that he would have no consideration for human lives. Perhaps he did, to some degree—he had taken in many of the poorer people, after all—but it was evident he did not truly respect them. She had heard, many times, that once the people had submitted to the Kasenon, they would be treated equally, but that meant, in turn, that those not yet a part of the Kasenon, was not worthy of equality. They were not worthy of the Vasaath’s respect.

She wondered then, many times, why he could find it in himself to respect her. Sometimes, when that thought came to mind, she heard her father’s voice again, that men only wanted one thing with women, but she wanted it to be different with the general. What she had experienced with him was far beyond fancy and physical pleasure—it was an understanding, soul to soul. When she was with him, she felt safe, even when she doubted him; whenever he lost his temper, she was never truly afraid, for she knew, deep inside, that he would never hurt her; she knew that he would always want her happiness, even though the two of them might not have the same views on what happiness entailed. All this, she knew—and yet, so much was changed.

The Vasaath and his men were planning for the final attack, and she knew very well that he did not intend to keep her family alive. She thought that if she pleaded to him to at least spare her brother, he would perhaps do it out of love for her. One night, as they sat together by his reading nook, having tea with the burning brazier in the background, she carefully said, “when you take the city, I suspect you won’t let my father live.”

He pondered for a moment before he said, “no.”

Juniper nodded. She had been prepared for that answer, and she knew that one of them had to die for the other one to live. She bit her lip and gently moved closer to him, placing a soft hand on his forearm. Growing up with pigheaded men, she had learnt how to use her female charm to sway their minds. “I know you are a man of duty, sir, of honour, but I can’t express how happy it would make me if you at least considered sparing my brother.”

He sighed deeply and looked at her. “If he submits, he’ll be spared, like any other.”

Juniper frowned. “But if he doesn’t, not initially, would you please spare him, for me? I could convince him!”

He clenched his jaw. “No. I couldn’t do that. We don’t keep prisoners.”

She moved closer yet. He was a man, after all, and he was not made of stone. With her fingers, she gently traced the ink on his chest, and said, “I know you don’t, but it’s all so very final. My brother is young and reckless, and doesn’t think for himself. Be as magnanimous as I know you can be, and give him that chance.” She pressed herself to him, and said, making sure the hurt was clear, “they are the only family I have left.”

He gently took her hand from his chest and brought it to his lips. “If I didn’t know any better,” he said, kissing her palm, “I’d say you’re trying to manipulate me.”

Embarrassed and disappointed, she tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast.

He looked at her, his golden eyes lightened by the fire. “I do not take kindly to manipulation, my lady.” He kissed her hand again. “But I won’t say no to an invitation.” He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, weighing her down against the pillows, and proved that he at least wasn’t immune to her female charm. She chuckled against him, surprised—but his advances weren’t unwelcomed.

That night, she had trouble sleeping. She kept thinking about her brother, wondering if there was a way for her to convince him to submit beforehand, or at least make him leave the city before the battle. Her sleep was riddled with nightmares where she tried to save him from one terrible fate to another, but never succeeded, and by morning, she was not at all rested. At breakfast, the Vasaath commented on her dull cheeks and troubled brow, worrying as usual. He suggested a visit to Neema for some consultation, but she assured him that it was only her troubled sleep.

“If you’re tired,” he said, his brows lowly furrowed, “you should lie down, _menaan_.”

She shook her head. “It won’t matter. I have too much on my mind.”

“Unburden yourself,” he said. “Share with me your troubles.”

She sighed in defeat and looked at him. “I’m thinking about my brother. Worrying, might be a better choice of word.” She shook her head. “I kept dreaming that I lost him, over and over again.”

His face turned hard, unamused. “You worry because you think I will kill him.”

Juniper dropped her gaze. “I worry he might die, yes. It doesn’t matter at whose hands.”

“ _Daan_ ,” he muttered. “Last night, you begged me to spare him. I told you no. Now you wish to make me feel guilt by claiming your sleep is riddled by nightmares?”

Juniper snapped her head at him, suddenly very irritated. “Guilt? I am not trying to instil _guilt_ in you! Do not insult me, sir. It doesn’t matter how my brother might die, I would mourn him my whole life nonetheless! Especially if he is killed because he won’t submit, because I know I could convince him to save himself.” She huffed and slammed her teacup on the table. “It’s my _brother_ , for Builder’s sake, and I love him! I don’t expect you to understand such devotion or blood relations, but he is my _baby brother_ , and I have a responsibility to protect him!” She quickly dried away a tear that had escaped her eye and turned her gaze away. The Vasaath was silent, but Juniper could tell by the tension that the only reason he wasn’t scolding her for being impertinent, was because she was being fragile. With a huff, she excused herself, saying that she needed some time alone, and left the tent.

The sun was shining brightly, but over the mountains in the southeast, she could tell a storm was brewing. She walked around the grounds for a while, thinking that she would perhaps run into Kasethen—he would surely understand and support her—but she did not. She visited the Kamani to see how they were fairing, and helped with a few of their chores, and that helped to clear her mind for a while. But her thoughts returned, determined to torment her. Later, she visited Neema, just to have a friend to speak to.

She explained her frustrations, and Neema listened. Indeed, she was not at all shocked by the general’s harshness and claimed that it would indeed be the right thing to do, killing her brother.

“There is a difference between living and not dying—the Kasenon is not meant for those who simply want to survive,” she said, in an attempt to make Juniper understand why unwilling and forceful conversion would not make anything better. “Order will only come through submission.”

“Then why give people such a ridiculous choice?” Juniper cried. “Submit or die? That’s not a choice, that’s a threat. No one in their right mind would choose death.”

Neema sighed. “The Kas aren’t invasive people,” said she. “They have stayed at Kasarath for a thousand years. Occasionally, they have settled somewhere to build trading relations, and if the people there are kind and tolerating, if they have _order_ , no force is needed.”

Juniper huffed. “I’ve heard rumours that the full Kas army is nearly forty thousand strong! You don’t have such a massive army unless you plan on using it!”

Neema shook her head. “You’re not even trying to understand. Strength is what keeps the People together, whether we’re at war or not.”

“So all the talk of ‘cleansing’ is just… nonsense?” Juniper spat.

“Sometimes, they can clearly see the corruption, the chaos, and that’s when they cleanse.” Neema sighed. “They cleansed my village, and removed the corruption. Those who submitted did it because they recognised that the Kasenon was fair and prosperous and would bring order.”

“How do you know?” Juniper asked, her jaw tightened. “You were only a child; how do you know?”

Neema glared at her. “All the people who submitted are now my brothers and sisters. They are devoted to the Kasenon.”

“Yes,” Juniper said, “but what happens if anyone goes against it?”

“You don’t.”

“But what if someone did?”

Neema clenched her jaw. “They would be corrected.”

Juniper nodded. “They would be punished.”

“Just like you punish those who break your laws,” said Neema.

“Yes, but the difference is that we don’t _force_ people to obey our rules unless they’re here.”

“And we don’t force people to obey our rules unless they’re of the People.”

Juniper huffed. “Yes, but that’s the point! You _force_ people to join you! And since you don’t keep prisoners, and since you don’t think there is any other way to order than through submission, the only choice you give them is the choice between conversion and death. No one in their right mind chooses death. There will always be forceful conversion! There will always be people who choose life over death!”

Neema was silent for a while, eyeing Juniper thoroughly, before asking, “are you telling me that you won’t choose the Kasenon because you believe in it, but because you fear death?”

Juniper was taken aback by the question. This wasn’t about her—it was about Sebastian! Indeed, there were some things in the Kasenon that Juniper admired, but there were many things she found terrifying. She shifted in her seat. “I would not wish to die, no, but neither do I wish to be forced into a role and a life I never chose for myself.”

“Aren’t you already in such a life?”

“Yes,” Juniper nodded, “and I wish to leave it. I wish to be free.”

Neema sighed deeply and closed her eyes. Her visage was tired, dull, and she slumped her shoulders. “We all wish to be free, my dear, but we don’t know what that means.” She sighed again. “I know you worry about your brother, and I understand your pain. But he is the heir to Noxborough, and he would have the name and the claim to rally others to his side and retaliate. In matters of war, you must trust that the Vasaath knows the risks. I don’t know what you are to him, but he would never betray his people to win a woman’s favour.”

Juniper sighed, feeling desperate yet defeated. “But my brother is innocent!”

“If he wasn’t your brother, then yes, he would be,” said Neema, “but he holds the Arlington name, and he has something to defend, something to reclaim.”

“Then what about me?” Juniper asked and straightened. “I hold the Arlington name just as he does. Indeed, I’m only a woman, but I am Edredian, a Northerner, and an Arlington. People would rally behind me if I asked them to.”

Neema bore her green eyes into her. “And would you?”

“If I had to.”

The two women stared at each other, the tension rather tangible, when a _kasaath_ suddenly entered and caused Juniper to jolt so violently, she nearly knocked her tea out.

“Forgive me,” said the _kasaath_ and bowed. Then he looked at Neema and said something in their tongue, and Neema smiled kindly and nodded. The soldier smiled back and stepped inside.

Neema rose and said to Juniper, “I’m sorry to have to turn you away, my dear, but I have to do my duty.”

Juniper nodded a scurried to her feet. She bowed to the solider in respect, and just as she was about to leave, she felt Neema grab her arm.

The woman leaned in and whispered, “don’t let anyone ever hear you say such things, Juniper.”

She was rather surprised by the urgency in Neema’s voice, and nodded. She gave the soldier a quick glance before she left the tent, and her heartbeat was high up in her throat. What if he had heard her? There had almost been fear in Neema’s voice, and it frightened her. She knew the punishment for treason in Noxborough—she didn’t expect it to be any less severe with the Kas.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Daan** – _lies_  
 **Kasaath** – _warrior_ ; “strength of the people”


	48. The Dark Before the Dawn: IV

** IV **

  
The Vasaath was in a terrible mood—most of it was self-inflicted. He was under an enormous amount of stress, and it didn’t make things better that he time and again lost his temper with the girl. He should never have accused her—perhaps he did feel some guilt, after all? He did understand that she felt a strong bond with the boy, such was the tradition of family and blood ties, but he could not sympathise. The boy was arrogant, foolish, and obnoxious. He would never understand the correctness of the Kasenon, so why should he be granted more time than others? Because it would make Juniper happy? If there ever was a reason, that would be the only one. He wanted her to be happy, but she was not. He could see it in her eyes. He never expected it to be easy to fall between two sides—he, himself, wasn’t sure what he would choose if he had to decide between Juniper and duty. He had never thought he would ever have to make such a choice, but once she was converted and _ohkasethen_ , he would either have to ignore his duties or refrain from ever being intimate with her again. As it was, he could see neither option as viable—so how could he demand her to choose?

He needed to sort his thoughts on this matter. Kasethen would surely help him, but his advisor was visibly absent, and the Vasaath’s bad mood worsened. Everything seemed to go wrong that day—he spilt tea on his book, he accidentally hurt one of his men while sparring, he hit his big toe on one of the stairs, and he was late to his council meeting, where his advisor was still absent.

“Where is Kasethen?” he demanded, but none of the others seemed to know. The Vasaath huffed. “Has anyone seen him today?” The men looked at each other and then shook their heads. The general clenched his fists. “No one?” Again, the men shook their heads, and the Vasaath sighed deeply and leaned his arms against the table. “Oh, for fu—go and find him. Tell him he’s needed.”

Two of the _rasaath_ bowed and left the tent, and the meeting went on. When the two men returned, they said that they weren’t able to find the advisor, and the Vasaath was deeply troubled by this. He had to be somewhere—had they searched the privy?—but when the men said that they had searched everywhere, the general’s chest tightened.

“Tell the _kaseraad_ to search the city,” he muttered. “He might have wondered off in some… _mad_ curiosity. The rest of you will search as well, and you won’t stop until you found him.”

The men all nodded and left the tent. The Vasaath tried to calm himself, tried to tell himself that Kasethen was probably just out on a walk. Perhaps with Juniper? He hadn’t seen her all day, either, so they were probably spending time together. He was quite convinced of it as he strode across the yard and into the lady’s quarters.

Juniper was sitting quietly by her reading nook with her nose in a book, but she gasped and dropped it the second the Vasaath barged in. Her face was completely drained, and it looked as though she had seen a ghost. “Please! Whatever you’ve heard, I didn’t mean it!” she yelped, her voice close to breaking.

The Vasaath knitted his brows. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what she was speaking of, but he just shook his head—there were more pressing matters at hand. He looked around. She was all alone, and he asked, “have you seen Kasethen today?”

“No,” she said and shook her head. “I… I was looking for him earlier, but I couldn’t find him.”

The Vasaath tightened his jaw. “No… no one seems to be able to find him.”

“What?” She rose, but didn’t move to him. “Is he missing?”

He sighed deeply. “I don’t know. He could be.” As the realisation hit him, he felt rage surge through him in a way he had never known, and before he could control himself, he slammed his fist into one of the tent poles. The whole structure wobbled at the heavy impact, despite its robust build. Numbing pain spread through his hand, and he grunted vexedly.

“No, please, calm yourself,” Juniper cried as she quickly strode to him, but the Vasaath held his hand out to halt her—he was not himself, so he couldn’t trust himself. The girl, however, didn’t seem to heed his warning, and he felt her small and warm hands trail his arm and land on his chest. “Calm yourself, sir. Kasethen would not want you to get—”

“Do not talk of Kasethen as if you know him,” he growled and glared at her, and the girl stepped back. At once, he regretted it. He sighed, barely knowing what to make of himself. “No… forgive me. Juniper…” He reached out for her, craving her closeness, and she hesitated for a brief moment before she returned to him. He pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her and just breathed for a while.

She had her cheek against his chest, and he felt the soft vibrations of her voice as she said, “Kasethen means more to you than anyone. I can see that. He’s more than your advisor—he’s your family.”

The Vasaath sighed deeply and closed his eyes. Indeed, Kasethen was worth more to him than anyone. Perhaps even more than Juniper. If anything were to happen to Kasethen, he would go mad with anger and grief.

“We’ll find him,” she said and wrapped her arms around his waist. “We will find him, alive and well.”

He held her tighter, feeling how her small frame somehow expelled all his anger, all his worry, and he just let her being calm his soul. They remained embraced for a moment lost in time, as he did not wish to let her go. He kept her pressed against him until she suggested they had some tea, and he released her. He was surprised at how much she could soothe him, and how easily she could sway his anger—either to the one side, or the other. They sat in silence, contemplating, while drinking the tea. The Vasaath waited impatiently for his men to return with Kasethen, but the dark started to fall, and thunder began roaring in the distance, and no one came.

“It’s the autumn rains,” said Juniper. “The thunderstorms usually stay for days, clearing the heat of the summer.”

“Yes, we have them in Kasarath too,” he said.

“I’m not so fond of thunder,” said she. “It always gives me the sense that there’s something wicked in the wind.”

“I like it,” he said and looked at her. “It calms me.” Then he sighed. “But you might be right.”

She gently placed her hand atop his. “We _will_ find him.”

The Vasaath nodded. Yes, he had to remain strong—but that evening, as the storm rolled in over the city, his men returned empty-handed. Kasethen was nowhere to be seen. At least, the Vasaath thought, there was no body. No body meant that he could still be alive, somewhere. But he could not sleep, and neither could the woman next to him. For her, it was the loud thunderclaps that kept her awake, and for him, it was the thoughts of where Kasethen might be. Juniper twitched at every loud thunder burst, and the Vasaath gently caressed her arm. At last, the girl stopped shuddering, drifting off to sleep. He held her tightly, drawing from her calmness, her serenity. When dawn approached, he hadn’t slept a wink—but he wasn’t tired. No, quite the opposite. He was wide awake, ready to do whatever he could to find his dearest friend.

Moving troops into the city would be a direct assault, and that was not the plan. The spies were tasked with combing through the city, while the Vasaath and some of his men scouted the areas around Noxborough. The city gates had been shut and barred since the night of the ambush, and by the gates, just where the Westbridge army had been stationed, the corpses had been moved and burned. A large pile of ash and bones were still visible behind some trees, and despite the heavy rainfall, there was still smoke escaping from underneath. It must have been burning for days, or weeks, fuelled by the fat from the dead.

The hundreds upon hundreds of tents were still erected, and the closed road in and out of the city passed the eerie, abandoned camp. Crows were still feasting upon whatever remains the Noxborough guards hadn’t burned, and even the Vasaath felt a weight in his chest while gazing upon the scene; it wasn’t regret, nor was it sympathy, but a feeling of tragedy. He had no doubt in his mind that most of those five thousand men believed themselves to be strong and resilient. They were soldiers—warriors—and the heart of a soldier was the same no matter the culture. He knew he frightened them beyond reason that night; if not, five thousand men would not turn their backs on such an easy win. To look at the empty camp was to look at empty potential, an empty promise, and it filled him with disgust. Kasethen would only see sadness. He was too empathic and sensitive to feel disgusted. Such was the nature of him—always so gentle, so compassionate. Had it not been for him, the Vasaath would not have been a rational man. He knew his own darkness, and Kasethen did too. He had made him a better man since they were children. If Kasethen had been hurt, the Vasaath would find the one that did it and destroy him.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Kaseraad** – _spies_ ; “the shadow of the people”  
**Ohkasethen** – foreign teacher  
**Rasaath** – _officer_ ; dutiful soldier; true soldier


	49. The Dark Before the Dawn: V

** V **

  
Three full days had passed since Kasethen had gone missing. Storms continued to circle around Noxborough, just as they usually did this time of year, and the bad feeling inside of Juniper only worsened. The Vasaath was beside himself. He was silent, more so than usual, and brooding. He had gone through deep emotions—tears, fury, hope, defeat... His sleep was troubled, and he was preparing himself physically for a fight. Juniper didn’t really mind watching his gracious movements and his magnificent musculature as he exercised in the rain, but she knew he did it because he was troubled, angry, and grieving. She tried comforting him best she could, but some things could not be helped with soft words and songs.

She had her suspicions, herself, of where Kasethen might be, but she was hesitant to voice them—she knew, that deep below Fairgarden, there were dungeons. For generations, traitors of the dukedom had been placed in those cells, awaiting public execution. Thieves and murderers were hung down by the gallows behind Fairgarden, but the worst criminals were executed on the Town Square. She was uncertain how her father could have gotten hold of Kasethen inside the encampment—in a way, it would be impossible—and she dared not say anything to the Vasaath until she was certain such a ruse was plausible. She did not want him to do anything reckless.

That evening, after supper, they sat by the rugs in his tent in silence. He had his head in her lap, his eyes closed, and she gently caressed his hair and hummed. He seemed to like that, and it seemed to calm him. She seemed to calm him. They made love that night, and she could feel his frustration. It was quite a strange affair, and his mind seemed to be elsewhere. He did not seem content as they caught their breaths afterwards, and he was distant, unfeeling. Juniper felt uncertainty creep upon her; insecurity gripped her as she feared the fairytale might be coming to a close. She was no longer enough.

She never expected him to consider her as his spouse, or betrothed—indeed, the concept was certainly quite outlandish to him—but she could not help but see him as hers. Knowing the Kas did not have such relations, she wondered exactly what she was to him. In that moment of weakness, she thought she could have been replaced by any _maasa_. While coldness spread through her, she bit her lip. Perhaps a _maasa_ would have been a better choice for him, especially now when he needed healing.

She knew not why the uncertainty had crept up on her at that moment—she had felt so loved and revered before, and the Vasaath had told her that he held deep, profound feelings for her. The Vasaath did not lie, she knew that; he would much rather be harsh and unkind than lie, she knew that too, so why didn’t she feel loved now? She turned away from him and curled up into a ball. She did not wish to cry, nor did she want him to see her so emotional at that time. It wasn’t fair, she thought. He was worried for his friend, he grieved for him, she knew that. Her selfish feelings and need for affection was nothing compared to the pain he must feel. No, indeed, she had no right to be selfish, to feel rejected, but as he gently wrapped his arms around her, she could not hold back the tears.

“What’s the matter?” he asked softly.

She shook her head. No words could escape her. Trying to identify her own feelings, the only thing she could recognise was disappointment—disappointment in herself, disappointment in her dreams, and disappointment in his distance.

He repeated his question, gently turning her to face him. Once they were face to face, he dried away some of her tears. “I hurt you, didn’t I? Do you need any ointments or herbs, for pain?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He frowned. “Then tell me, why are you so distressed?”

Looking into his golden eyes, she searched for approval, proof of her worth, but saw none. “I’m not enough, and I will never be,” she said, her voice weak. “I’m not a _maasa_.” She looked away, defeated and embarrassed.

There was confusion in his voice as he said, “I don’t understand.”

She returned her gaze to him. “I cannot comfort you. I cannot _heal_ you.”

He knitted his brows, deeply, and swiftly pulled her underneath him. “Why do you say that?”

“I—I can’t—I don’t…” She was surprised by his sudden movement. “Does it... does it comfort you? What we do, does it comfort you?”

“Yes,” he muttered, but he was still wary.

She sighed. “Do you rather wish I was a _maasa_?”

He did not like that question—that accusation—and Juniper could see that. He clenched his jaw, but did not speak. He kissed her, with certainty and power, and pulled her down. “You are not a _maasa_ ,” he hissed against her lips. “I will never use you as one.” His breath was hot against her as he kissed her body. “I will not share you.” His lips trailed her form, burned her skin, and caused her to tremble violently. “I will not lose you.” He grabbed her legs, parted them gently, sensually, and said, “I chose you for myself.” He then took her again, leaving all his frustration aside. She could feel him, all of him, as he had all his attention directed on her. Now, he was affectionate, he was proving his point, and her worries simply slipped away. She revelled, cried out her delight, and allowed herself to be completely in his mercy. Her deliverance was divine, blinding, exhilarating—and as she came down from her blissful elevation, the Vasaath whispered, “do you still think I am discontent with who you are?”

She could barely utter a single word as she tried to gather herself, and she just shook her head.

“No,” he said and kissed her, and she kissed him back with intent.

She lay in his embrace, elated and exhausted. Pressing herself close, she urged him to hold her tighter. She kissed his chest, and felt his body vibrate as he hummed.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered jestfully and yanked her head upwards. “Not unless you want another go.” When she met his eyes, she smiled, and he frowned. “Why would you think you weren’t enough?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I felt… disconnected, as though your heart wasn’t here.”

He furrowed his brows. “You have my heart, _menaan_.”

With a frown upon her brow, she hoisted herself up to let her face be at his level. “What does that mean? I hope it’s endearing…”

He smiled and gently brushed his lips over hers. “ _Ma enaan_ ,” he said and caressed her face, “means ‘my love’.”

At that moment, Juniper was sure her heart had exploded. Speechless, she gazed into his golden eyes. She knew not what to say or how to behave, but she knew that she loved him so much it pained her. Finally, she kissed him, her hand gently touching his cheek.

“I don’t want you do doubt my feelings again, Juniper,” he murmured. “You are very special to me. I don’t want you to think otherwise.”

She tried to keep her emotions in line, not to burst out crying, as she said, “my lord, I—I love you.”

He knitted his brows, tightly, as he slowly and gently traced her jaw with his clawed fingers. “Do you mean it?”

She nodded. She hadn’t been surer of anything in her entire life.

Knitting how brows even tighter, he kissed her forehead. “Good.”

She wanted to chuckle at his simple, stoic response, but she held her tongue and fell back against his chest. There, she was gently lulled to sleep by his soft caresses and steady breaths.

She awoke in an empty bed the morning after. The Vasaath had continued his search for Kasethen, and Juniper had her morning tea on the battlements by herself. She could not stop thinking about the confession of love she had received the night before. He was being sincere, because the Vasaath never lied. She felt flustered just by thinking of his lips as they shaped the words. _Ma enaan_. They felt so strange, and yet so beautiful. She tasted them on her own lips, “ _ma enaan_ ,” and they rolled beautifully off her tongue, like rain in spring.

Every Kas soldier was looking for Kasethen, and Juniper could see the worry in them all. It was touching, she thought, to see so much respect for Kasethen, and how they all cared about him—perhaps only a handful of soldiers from the City Guard would worry if Garret went missing, if any at all. Such care was uncommon. Mostly, the City Guards did their duties, and nothing else. They cared not about anyone else but themselves and their own, and occasionally, their Duke. An advisor’s disappearance would be talked of, but no one would truly care—let alone worry. With the Kas, everything was different. The _people_ were their family, and Kasethen was as much their brother as any of them. In a way, Juniper envied them; she envied their ability to love each other so unconditionally. They loved each other like family despite different ranks and stations; the baker loved the solider, and the soldier loved the cobbler, and the cobbler loved the _maasa_ , and the _maasa_ loved the baker. It was all mutual respect, and yet, they all knew that they did not stand above their roles.

Juniper had never seen that. She was supposed to devote herself to her family, to be ready to die for them, and accept that her role was to obey her husband’s every whim without question or doubt, but not expect the same returned to her—such a frightening prospect. She had thought quite a bit about what Neema had asked her, about whether or not she would feel differently if Lord Christopher or her father had respected her, but in truth, she did not know. There was no fantasy in which any of the two men respected her—it was simply unthinkable. Indeed, as a child, she had dreamed of her father loving her, but already as a young girl, Juniper knew it would never be like that. He hated that his firstborn wasn’t a boy, and he had never forgiven Juniper for such an insult. Growing up, she saw the horrors her mother lived through—lessons worth more than any threat she had received. So, it was rather difficult for her to truly understand how such collective love and care could exist. She was thrilled that it did, but it felt distant, like a dream.

When evening arrived, the Vasaath was back. Kasethen was not. As expected, the general was in a rather foul mood. Juniper tried to soothe him, to comfort him, but the worry was tearing him apart. She considered telling him about the dungeons, but figured it was better to leave such information for when he was calmer. She sang to him again, with his head in her lap, and told him stories she had heard while growing up—she didn’t know if he truly liked them or not, but it seemed to lull him.

She was in the middle of telling him the story of when the first city of Edred was burnt down by a giant dragon when he gently touched her arm and said, “I will spare your brother.”

“What?” She looked at him, bewildered.

He lazily opened one eye. “I will spare your brother. If you could get him to submit, that is.”

“I…” Juniper didn’t know what to say, suddenly nervous—did the man truly put her brother’s life in her hands?

The Vasaath sighed and closed his eye again. A crease appeared between his brows as he said, “Kasethen’s disappearance has made me realise how much he truly means to me. I suppose it could be equivalent to your definition of family. I cannot spare your father, but I could make an exception for your brother.”

Her heart raced and her breath quickened. She wanted to cry, in relief and in shock, but she held it back. “I don’t know what to say… thank you, sir. I… I believe… no, I _know_ , that in time, Sebastian will understand how magnanimous you’ve been, and be grateful.”

His golden gaze was suddenly set upon hers. “I’m not doing it for him, Juniper.”

She carefully eyed the face of the man she loved. It was curious, she thought, how only a few months could have changed them both so profoundly. She gently caressed his lips, as though her fingers were lightly brushing paint onto them, as she recalled them saying, “ _ma enaan means ‘my love’_.” Shivers crawled up her spine, urging her to kiss him. Softly, she placed a hand on his cheek and leaned forwards, slowly planting a kiss upon his lips. Her dark hair fell over his face like a curtain and shielded them both from the world. His hand fell upon the back of her head, pressing her closer.

“Do you still believe you have my heart?” he asked as they parted.

Juniper nodded. “Do you still believe I love you?”

The Vasaath nodded. “I do.”

The next day was much the same. The rain was still pouring. Juniper sat in her quarters, drinking tea to soothe herself from the loud claps of thunder that raged above her head. She did not like being alone in this kind of weather, but neither did she wish to leave the safety of her tent. She tried to read and sing to distract herself from worry and fear, but it was fruitless. When the Vasaath came back from his search, soaked from the rain, she had him sit down for some tea. He was in his usual foul mood, but seemed to calm down after a few sips.

They spoke for a while, and she could clearly hear the sadness and defeat in his voice. They were searching the shoreline for a body, he said, and she felt the gruelling, horrifying dread in her stomach; she knew they wouldn’t find a body on the shore. She knew it in her core. With a deep sigh, she poured the last of the tea into her cup. It was dark, murky, and an uncomfortable chill went through her spine as it reminded her of the dark and foul—she suddenly froze in place, and her heart dropped to the floor as faintness came upon her. She had forgotten to drink the Shadow Veil, and now it was too late! Trembling, she slowly put a hand on her belly.

“Is something the matter, Juniper?” the Vasaath asked, always observant.

She just stared at him, not knowing what to say. Was it so terrible? Would he shun her for being careless? But he, too, had been careless.

“Are you in pain?” he asked and frowned.

She shook her head. “No, I—”

“ _Vas_! _Vas_!” A _kasaath_ suddenly came barging in, breathless and panicked. The Vasaath rose and scolded the soldier—Juniper didn’t know what was said, but the general was not happy. The soldier said something that made the Vasaath tense, and his hands curled into fists.

“What is happening?” Juniper asked. “Have you found him?”

The Vasaath turned his head to her, his eyes dark. “There was a message. Your father has him.”

Juniper felt the air leave her body as she slumped down. “Oh…”

He gave an order to the soldier who left the tent, and the Vasaath turned to Juniper, his jaw squared. “Where is he being kept?”

She tried to tell him, but her voice was so breathless, she could barely hear her own words.

“Where is he being _kept_?” he demanded sharply, making her jitter.

“In the dungeons,” she said and looked down. “He’s… probably in the dungeons below the castle.”

The Vasaath paced the room back and forth for a short moment, his chest heaving. “I will kill him,” he growled. “I will rip his heart out while it’s still beating and feed it to the dogs.”

Juniper took a deep breath. She wanted to think he was only upset, that he didn’t mean what he said—but she was fairly certain he did. She swallowed. “What were my father’s demands? I don’t suppose he just wanted to say that he had Kasethen.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the Vasaath. “He will die, and this city will submit before dawn.” He then strode to the entrance, but halted just before he parted the canvas. “You will stay here, and you will not leave before I or one of my men come and get you.”

She frowned. “But I—”

“It’s not a suggestion, Juniper,” he growled. “The streets will run red tonight. You will stay here. Do you understand?”

She gazed at him, bewildered. She wanted to stop him, to keep him from doing something rash, but his gaze was so dark, so determined, so urgent, she held her tongue and simply nodded before he marched out into the rain.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Kasaath** – _warrior_ ; “strength of the people”  
 **Menaan** – (ma enaan); “my love”; “an ardent confession of my deepest care”  
 **Vas** – _leader; keeper; order_


	50. The Dark Before the Dawn: VI

** VI **

  
The shackles were digging into his skin, crushing his bones; he could barely feel his arms, and everything in his body ached. The smell of damp stone, dirt, soiled hay, and blood stung in his nose, and the horrifying groans and screams of other prisoners echoed between the stone walls.

Kasethen tried to remain calm, despite the pain and the overwhelming urge to scream at the top of his lungs. He wasn’t like the soldiers, he wasn’t like the Vasaath—he feared death. He feared pain. When he was attacked, he had not suspected a thing. He wasn’t even sure who his attacker had been. All he remembered was a sharp pain in the back of his head, and then everything had turned black. When he was cruelly awakened by a bucket of icy cold water, inside this cell, he knew not how much time had passed since he had been struck down. His arms were shackled above his head as he was nearly suspended from the ceiling, and once he was awake, the guards had battered him until he coughed blood. But he never cried. Not once. He would not give them that satisfaction. As soon as they had left him, however, he had not been able to stop the tears.

He tried to tell himself to be brave, to weather the storm with strength and resolve, just as he had once told his beloved, but he was not as strong as his brave warrior. In the darkness and the lonesomeness, and through his tears, Kasethen kept whispering, “I’m sorry, Tiku. I’m sorry…”

He knew not how many days he had stayed in that cell, without food or water, with the chilling sounds of the screams and cries around him. He had started hallucinating; in the corner of his cell, he saw Tiku’s shadow, judging him with beetle eyes every waking hour—and Kasethen kept repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

He jolted and gasped when the heavy gates opened and closed, and the harsh noise echoed sharply throughout the dungeons. The other prisoners shouted and rattled their bars, and Kasethen wished that whoever came wasn’t there for him—but he knew that was only a foolish wish.

The faint light of the torch flickered slowly as footsteps sounded closer. There was only one, Kasethen could tell. When the visitor rounded the corner, Kasethen could clearly see the man even though the light didn’t illuminate all that much. Dark hair, rosy cheeks, and silver eyes—this was Sebastian Arlington, Lady Juniper’s younger brother. When the boy stood by the bars, he was silent, but Kasethen could see in his face that he was disheartened. In his hand, he held a bucket of water, but he did not move.

“Have you come to revel at the weakness of my kind?” Kasethen asked, his voice weak and hoarse.

The boy clenched his jaw and glanced down at the bucket of water. “You’re no use to us dead,” he then said. He lodged the torch into a metal loop in the wall and opened the cell door. He seemed hesitant to move inside, but took a careful step over the threshold. He eyed Kasethen in his shackles and said, “you’re not like the others I’ve seen. You’re… weak and small.”

Kasethen huffed, but immediately started coughing. “Water…” The boy filled a ladle and offered it, and Kasethen drank greedily. “Thank you.” He sighed heavily, but winced by the pain. “Tell me, how did you capture me?”

“You ought to be more careful with who you allow into your midst. Your greed for our people gave us an easy way in.”

Kasethen scoffed. “You’re right... of course you would take advantage of your outcasts, and our hospitality. We should have known. That is on us, indeed.”

“My father says you are the general’s closest advisor,” said the boy. “Is that true?”

“Does it matter?”

Sebastian knitted his brows but said nothing. Instead, he filled the ladle again and offered it.

“I’m not a soldier, no,” said Kasethen after he had had the water. “I don’t spend my days exercising my body, but my mind. I read about history, politics, and poetry.”

The boy shifted on his feet and said, “but you must be important to the general, mustn’t you? He wouldn’t want you to spill military secrets.”

Kasethen narrowed his eyes. “And you suppose he fears I’ll expose anything?”

“No one wants to be tortured.” There was a slight discomfort in the lad’s voice, and Kasethen could hear it loud and clear. “Enough pain will cause anyone to talk.”

The advisor sighed deeply. “You’re not used to loyalty, are you?”

“There is no such thing as absolute loyalty,” said the boy. “Everyone has a price, or a limit.”

Kasethen smiled, but his face hurt. “It is frustrating, isn’t it? Not getting the information you want.” Then he sighed. “What did your father tell you to do? Why did you come down here? I don’t expect it’s only to keep me from dying.”

Sebastian hesitated for a moment before giving the Kas another ladle of water. “My father doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t care if you die down here or if you die somewhere else, as long as he can display your body.”

“So that’s his plan, then,” Kasethen nodded, “to display me?”

“He wants to prove that you’re mortal,” said Sebastian.

“Of course,” said Kasethen. “I believe the Vasaath made quite the spectacle that night.”

Fear and uncertainty dimmed the boy’s gaze for a short moment before he straightened. “He never frightened us. It was the Westbridge army that couldn’t stomach it.”

Kasethen nodded. “You are made of a different material, I believe. Hardworking and diligent, true people of the north.”

The boy glared suspiciously at the advisor. “Yes.”

“And yet,” said Kasethen, “it must have been a gruesome sight. All those bodies… the blood, the crows…” He frowned at the thought of the terrible deed, but winced at the pain it caused him. “I advised him against it, but his mind was set on it.” He carefully shook his head. “I couldn’t save those people, but I suppose war is war, no matter if I like it or not.”

Sebastian shot down his gaze, but only for a fleeting moment before his face turned into a scowl and he stepped out of the cell and closed the door. Kasethen wanted to tell the boy to stay, to let him drink just one more ladle, but the boy hurried along the halls with his torch. Before long, the prisoners were left to the darkness again, and Kasethen cried silently in despair and pain.

He drifted in and out of sleep; the pain both lulled him and kept him awake. He was so exhausted and hungry that he could barely hold his head up. Guards came and went. Some stopped to give him a thrashing, while others just gawked at the beaten, strange grey-skinned man chained to the ceiling inside the cell. Some marvelled at how dark his blood was, yet they were all surprised to see that it was indeed still red. Most said they thought it would be black. Like tar. _Like filth_. His only comfort was that the more battered he was, and the more starved he became, the clearer he saw Tiku in his corner; the beautiful black markings against his dark skin; the fine, strong shape of his arms; the softness and fullness of his plump, dark lips—soon, he would be close enough to touch, and Kasethen would hurt no more.

There was no food and no water, and he must have slipped into unconsciousness at one point, only to be woken up by a cold splash of water in his face. He drew a sharp breath as he returned to the world, only to find the boy in his cell yet again with the bucket and the ladle.

“You’re in bad shape,” said Sebastian with a serious frown upon his face. “Weakened, nearly dead.”

Kasethen couldn’t speak, but he stuck out his tongue in an attempt to beg for water. The boy poured the cold liquid into his mouth, and Kasethen drank with gratitude. The boy then put the bucket aside, and to Kasethen’s great shock and relief, he undid the shackles and let the advisor collapse in an aching heap on the floor. He could barely move his arms, and it took every grain of strength he had to curl up onto a ball. Sudden waves of coldness came upon him, and he started trembling uncontrollably as he lay on the floor.

“You’re in shock,” said the boy. “You need to eat. Here.” From his pocket, he pulled out a piece of bread and placed it right beside the advisor’s head. “Don’t eat it all at once.”

Kasethen glanced at the bread. He could smell it, how fresh it was, but he could barely move—let alone reach for it.

“I’ll tell the guards to stop beating you,” said Sebastian. “They just do it because it satisfies them.” The boy looked away. “It’s unnecessary.” Shortly after, Sebastian left again.

Kasethen tried to calm himself, and slowly, he regained the feeling in his arms again. After a few good minutes, he was strong enough to reach for the bread, and he savoured each bite of it. Now when he was no longer chained to the ceiling, he thought about attacking the next guard that entered his cell, but he knew he would be too weak to win such a fight. He wasn’t a fighter—he could hold his own, indeed, but he was no combatant, and he was in no shape to fight anyone.

After an hour or so, he could sit. His whole body ached from the abuse, the starvation, and the cold, but at least he didn’t have to keep his arms up. The boy had even left the bucket of water for him, but he was frugal. No one knew when he’d next be visited by a kind soul.

With bread and water in his belly, and with his arms closely wrapped around him, he started to feel a little better. He was still in pain, still fearful, but he could clear his mind. He started by trying to think of a way out—perhaps the boy would be a simpler target than an armed guard? But the boy had been good to him, and Kasethen could see that the boy didn’t truly want any of this—he wasn’t a fighter, no, but he was an excellent judge of character. Sebastian Arlington was not a cold and heartless man, but a lost and frightened boy with too much pressure upon him. Kasethen couldn’t possibly be cruel to the young man. His best chance of escaping, he thought, would be to save his strength and overpower one of the guards. Even with half his capacity, he could still put up a fight.

But the next one that visited him was not a guard, but the boy. He stood on the other side of the bars, but did not enter the cell—he was clever enough to remember and recognise that he had released the much larger Kas, and entering would be a risk. “Are you feeling better?”

“I am.”

Sebastian nodded. Then he cleared his throat. “How’s my sister?”

“I was under the impression that you didn’t really care about your sister.”

The boy huffed. “Of course I do!” He clenched his jaw and fiddled some with the rust on the bars before he said, “my father thinks she is little more than worthless, but I have always been fond of her. If you’ve hurt her, I hope you’ll die slowly.”

Kasethen looked upon the boy, and he could see that he was sincere. He nodded. “You love your sister. That’s a comfort. You need not worry, she’s perfectly safe. None of us would harm her.”

This made the boy frown. “She’s not you prisoner, then?”

“No.”

“Then why hasn’t she come home?”

Kasethen narrowed his eyes, just slightly. “Can’t you think of a reason?”

Sebastian fiddled with the bars again. “You killed Christopher Cornwall, so she’s not bound to him any longer. Why would she remain with you if she’s no longer threatened?”

“Yes,” Kasethen sighed, “that is a conundrum, indeed. You have no answer to it, yourself?”

The boy wondered for a while before saying, defeated, “she doesn’t want to come back.”

Kasethen sighed, blinked, and replied, “she misses you. She worries about you. She doesn’t want to return to your father, but she defends _you_ whenever she gets the chance.”

Sebastian slumped down, his face saddened. “I was very young when Mother passed away. Juniper always took care of me. She has always defended me, even when I didn’t deserve it. I should have defended her, but I didn’t.” He huffed. “I don’t even know why I’m telling _you_ this.”

“We all need someone to talk to sometimes,” said Kasethen. “Besides, I suppose I’ll die soon enough anyway.”

Sebastian’s face turned into a troubled frown. “Perhaps not.” He clenched his jaw. “My father plans to execute you on the Town Square to tomorrow, to raise the morale amongst the guards, but I know it will lead to nothing but war. So I sent a message to your leader. I told him to leave our shores tonight, or we’ll behead you by dawn.”

Kasethen raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you learn anything from the last time you made demands? The Vasaath does not take kindly to threats. He will not heed your warning.”

The boy swallowed, clearly nervous. “What else could I have done? Killing you would have been a declaration of war! I told my father that, but he didn’t care. He said that the odds are not in your favour.”

“They aren’t,” Kasethen agreed. “Had I been by the Vasaath’s side, I would have told him that. But you made a fatal mistake in capturing me.”

Sebastian grabbed the bars as his face turned pale. “Why?”

“Not only am I his closest friend,” said Kasethen, “but I am also the one that keeps the Vasaath from acting upon his darkest whims.”

“But why would he go into a war he cannot win, when there is another option that would secure the survival of you both?”

“The Vasaath doesn’t retreat,” said Kasethen. “Not even I could change his mind on that.”

“He’d be walking into his own grave.”

“Perhaps,” said Kasethen. “Or, you’ve just walked into yours.”

Sebastian’s face turned even paler. “He couldn’t possibly win…”

Kasethen furrowed his brows. “He beat an army of five thousand men with only fifty of his own, and you still doubt his prowess in war?”

“No... that is _not_ true! They were a hundred, at least!”

Kasethen sighed and shook his head. “There were _fifty_ of them. Stealth, speed, and skill. Imagine what two hundred of us can do.”

The boy seemed to search for something to say before he grabbed the bars and asked, “what am I to do, then? The message has been sent! I can’t undo it!”

“Release me,” said Kasethen. “Release me, and I’ll talk sense into him.”

Sebastian nodded at first, but as he reached for the locks of the door, he hesitated. Narrowing his eyes, he said, “you’re trying to manipulate me.” He took a step back. “You think I’m foolish, don’t you?”

Kasethen tightened his jaw. “No, I don’t, but walking away from this chance _is_ foolish.” When young Sebastian didn’t reply, but turned on his heel to march out of the dungeons, Kasethen barked, “don’t be foolish, Sebastian!” But the boy didn’t turn back, and Kasethen reached for the door but was withheld by the shackles around his ankles and he fell to the floor. He roared in anger and despair, and he couldn’t help but to wish that the Vasaath’s aggression would be enough to free him and keep him alive. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Tiku. Not today.”

* * *


	51. The Dark Before the Dawn: VII

** VII **

  
The encampment finally looked as though it was a war band set on defeating their enemy. The Vasaath stood at the battlements, overlooking his men as they prepared for battle. He had told them, that tonight was the night they took Noxborough—or they would die trying. It wasn’t only his pride at stake this time, but also Kasethen’s life. The Duke would regret the day he decided to insult the Vasaath personally.

He sought out the _kaseraad_ and ordered an update on the civil unrest. After the murder of Duke Cornwall, Duke Arlington had closed the city gates, effectively cutting off any trade or supply routes in and out of Noxborough. This had caused distress amongst the citizens and the unrest had worsened to the brink of anarchy.

“Outfit them,” the Vasaath ordered the spies. “Tell them to fight. The streets will run red tonight and this will be the only chance they’ll ever have to oppose the Duke. Make sure they’ll take it. Lie if you have to. Awaken their thirst for blood. Get help from the converters if need be, they know the people. Tell them it’s a matter of urgency—if it’s not done tonight, they will never have justice.”

“Yes, sir. We know where their armoury is; we’ll storm it.”

“Good. Make sure every battleworthy man has a sword in his hand and an urge to kill guards and nobles.”

The spies all nodded and hurried away to put the plan into motion.

When the darkness fell and the rain still poured, the Vasaath had his men ready by the barricades. He felt agitated, excited, and eager to finally storm that castle and end this preposterous farce. He would wait until he heard the turmoil on the streets, and then wait some more until the Duke would call out his men. Then, he would launch his attack.

Ten minutes passed in the stormy night, and the city was still silent. The anticipation from the soldiers was tangible, as though they were all standing on springboards, ready to leap into battle. The rain didn’t faze them, and the thunder only seemed to spur them on. A few minutes more, and then, the Vasaath could hear the faint but familiar sounds of fighting; the chanting of people, the shouting of men, the clash of swords, the rustle of armour… the ruckus spread fast—the uprising was long overdue, and the people did not want to wait any longer. A little push was all that was needed to tip the scale. The Vasaath looked up at the hill where Castle Fairgarden was, focusing all his anger and strength on his goal. He took a deep breath, patiently waiting. A few more minutes, he thought—and then, just as a loud thunderclap had faded over the hills, the bells started chiming over the rooftops. The Vasaath smirked.

He turned to his soldiers, looked at their ready forms—like predators waiting to bring down their prey—and barked, “kill anyone who comes at you; kill every man and woman who does not submit; if they show no respect, you will show no mercy. We will scrub these streets clean with their blood, and we shall retrieve the brother they stole from us! It is time we rid these lands of the corruption once and for all! _Order through submission_!”

The men answered him, echoed the first tenet in deafening unison with growling vigour, and hit the butts of their spears into the stone just as the white flash of lightning illuminated the two hundred warriors and the bloodlust in their burning eyes—and then, they marched.

The Vasaath was at the front, leading his troops with intent. He did not care whom he cut down, as long as he made it to the castle where he would find the Duke and gut him like the slimy fish he was. The uprising had been fast and relentless; clearly, the people had been waiting a long time for an opportunity like this. The guards seemed all in disarray, as though they were not at all prepared for fighting their own.

The Vasaath and his men saw very little opposition in the lower parts of the city as they guards were too busy cutting down, and being cut down, by the hundreds upon hundreds of starving people armed with swords, daggers, and axes. The Vasaath kept his eyes on the castle upon the hill and paid no mind to the chaos around him, but even so, he saw the indecency, and a crawling thought in his mind told him that he would not wish any of the mainlanders to join the Kasenon; the mob was tearing guards apart, limb from limb, despite their chilling cries and their desperate pleas; women were being violated openly in the streets, and children were being dragged by the hair; from the corner of his eyes, the Vasaath even saw a man chewing on another man’s neck while mounting his back, as if he was some sort of animal. Although he was appalled by what he witnesses, he pressed on. He could not—would not—be distracted. He could punish them later.

The rioting people were rabid beasts as they tore through the city like a plague, bringing chaos and destruction to every corner of Noxborough. Many died at the hands of the trained guards, but the sheer mass of people was like a tidal wave no man could hinder. Nobles were being dragged out of their homes, and entire families were being strung up and hanged from rafters. The Vasaath repressed the urge to fight it all—his mission was more important. Kasethen would be horrified if he saw what carnage the Vasaath had permitted, and he could hear his voice clear as day where he said that he would rather sacrifice himself than let the people kill each other in such a gruesome way. But the Vasaath didn’t care. He would not let Kasethen die, no matter how many uprisings he would have to elicit to prevent it.

It wasn’t until further up into the higher districts, the guards realised that the riot was hardly their biggest concern. Here, the Kas met battle, but the humans were ill-fitted to fight in the dark. They saw very little, while the Kas saw clearly. The advantage was greater than anyone could have expected, and the guards were cut down without much effort. The Vasaath suspected that the Duke would have the bulk of his forces guarding the castle, where he would be fortified.

When they reached the walls of the castle, the chaos could still be heard from the city. Houses had been lit on fire, and despite the pouring rain, the city burned. The Vasaath and his men halted outside the gates as about a hundred archers were stationed upon the battlements.

“Submit and you shall survive,” the Vasaath called, and he saw how the guards glanced at each other.

“ _Nock_!” shouted a commander from atop the ramparts, completely ignoring the Vasaath’s demands.

“Refuse, and we shall cut down each and every one of you,” the Vasaath continued.

“ _Draw_!”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw. Mainlanders were stupid, he knew that now.

“ _Loose_!”

“Shield wall!” the Vasaath bellowed, and the troops moved with precision as they covered each other with their large shields just before the arrows hit them. When the volley was over, the Vasaath straightened and glared at the commander. He took a deep breath, stared the commander in the eye, and realised that they would not back down. “Bring forth the ram! Shield the rammers!” The men moved in unison, in harmony, and created a perfect tunnel for the rammers to batter the gate. They heard the guards as they scurried about, and soon, more arrows came flying at them, some even lit on fire. The heavy ram smashed against the gate, and it was clear that the wooden doors weren’t built to withstand the bashing of ten Kas warriors, and before long, it started to give.

Suddenly, a painful groan was heard as one of the _kasaath_ buckled underneath a boulder that had been dropped from the battlements, and the shield wall was breached.

“Cover him!” the Vasaath roared, and the men were quick to repair the wall, but an arrow found its way straight through the neck of another soldier, who fell down into the mud. The Vasaath only saw the faint shadow of the man as he fell, and he roared, “Strengthen the Kas!”

The fifth tenet was repeated by the men as they battered the ram into the gate once more. Another set of boulders were thrown, and despite the men having some difficulty deflecting the heavy boulders, the wall remained intact. The soldier that was hit by the heavy stone was quickly on his feet, and even though his arm was injured, he strapped the shield of his fallen brother onto his good arm and resumed his place amongst the ranks. Another ram, and the gates came flying off their hinges, and the Kas soldiers could march into the bailey.

Once the gates were breached, the guards sprung to action. They fired another volley of arrows into the courtyard, but the Vasaath was quick to order another shield wall before issuing men to storm the ramparts. He led the assault himself in the bailey as knights marched out to meet them head-on. He knew not how many guards had been ordered to contain the rioters, or how many knights they had to face, but the battle was grand, as the Kas warriors were finally in their proper element.

The Vasaath felt more like himself than he had in months as he let his sword cut through the armours like a hot knife through butter. Every muscle in his body knew what to do, and they moved almost on their own, gracefully dancing through the battle. One lucky guard grazed him with his sword and made a cut on his arm that drew blood, but the Vasaath only grinned. The sting from the cut and the blood that ran down his skin edged him on, and he plunged his heavy sword right into the guard’s chest, piercing his plate armour, all the way through to the back. He watched as life disappeared from the man’s eyes before he braced his foot against the dying man’s chest and pushed down while retracting the blood-drenched blade.

His trained eye saw the guard that attempted to stab the warrior to his left, and his reaction was purely reflexes, etched into his very core from years of practice, as he slammed his shield into the guard, knocking him to the ground with a single strike. The troops moved forwards, slowly but surely, and trampled over the already fallen guards. The Kas had only lost one so far, and barely anyone had been injured—the Noxborough City Guard was not trained for warfare. They were not trained warriors, or even soldiers. Some might have seen real combat once or twice before, but most were frightened young men, and if they didn’t rush foolishly at a blade or a spear, they dropped their weapons and fell to their knees to plead for their lives. Those who did so were spared. All others were killed.

The fighting was quick, and soon, they could advance to the gates to the inner yard that lead to the Keep. They were easily forced open. Guards came at them from there as well, but they posed no greater threat than those they had already fought. The Vasaath ordered his men to scour through the castle—the orders were the same as before: kill anyone who came at them, and kill those who did not submit. His men swept through the castle fairly quickly. About a hundred guards were inside the castle itself, and here, the Vasaath found more resistance than he had anticipated. Clearly, the Duke had barricaded himself inside the Keep, surrounding himself with his elite guards in the hopes that they would not let anyone through. The Kas soldiers were superior, indeed, but their luck had reached its limit. The Vasaath watched as some of his men were cut down as they made fatal mistakes, but the rest pressed on. These guards fought with strategy and discipline, but they all lacked what the Vasaath had—conviction, fury, and a lust for vengeance.

At last, he found the door to what could not be anything but the Duke’s quarters, guarded by four heavily armoured knights with experienced statures. The Vasaath lunged at them with a roar, not caring about the bruises he would suffer from the counters he received. At one point, both his sword and his shield were knocked out of his grip, but he just kept fighting with his bare hands until the last guard had fallen.

The Vasaath breathed heavily, felt the strain of battle, as he reached down for the sword he had lost. With one strong kick, the door burst open, revealing the Duke as he sat behind his desk, drunken and bitter.

“So you came, at last,” he muttered and took a rich sip from a goblet. “What took you so long?”

The Vasaath bared his teeth as he moved into the room. “Your men are dead. Your people are rioting. Noxborough is no more.”

The Duke turned up his nose and drawled, “you got lucky, that’s all.” Then he smirked. “Do you know what a rat does if it’s cornered? It will chew its way out, almost through anything. I heard about the riots—I suppose enough rats eventually become a big problem. How clever of you to use that to your advantage. They’re your problem now.”

The Vasaath stopped and tightened his jaw. “I’m not as arrogant as you,” he said darkly, but the Duke scoffed and smirked.

“No?” he asked. “Calling yourself the _Demon of the North_ isn’t what you’d consider as arrogant, then?”

“I see my people,” the Vasaath growled, eager to tear off the head of this man, “and I see yours. You’re nothing but animals.”

The smugness was still plastered upon the Duke’s face, but there was resentment in his eyes. “And what about my lovely daughter? Is she an animal? Do you fuck her as one?”

The Vasaath had to restrain himself from hurling at the man, but all he could think of was how much he would enjoy killing him. Before mentioning Lady Juniper in such a degrading way, the Duke might have been granted a quick and painless death. Now he would suffer, and the Vasaath would make sure of it. He gave no reply, no retort, but strode up to the desk and grabbed the hand in which the Duke held his goblet, and nimbly twisted it to the point where he felt the bone snap. The Duke cried out in pain, and the goblet fell to the floor, spilling the wine.

“ _You fucking pig_!” the Duke bellowed, but the Vasaath swiftly grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the desk, breaking his nose and knocking some teeth out. Without a word, he then grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the room. The Duke was crying, groaning, struggling, but the Vasaath’s grip was like steel. He dragged him into a great hall where his men had gathered with the castle staff and the guards that had submitted. He looked at the sad gathering of frightened humans, knowing that most of them had only submitted because they feared death. He didn’t care—he could weed them out later.

He tossed the bleeding and groaning Duke onto the floor and turned to the surrenders. “This was your leader,” he said. “Now look at him… while you all were left to fend for yourself, this man cowered in his quarters, drinking wine. Pathetic.” He then ordered two of his men to grab hold of him. The Vasaath looked at the frightened people and said, “you have all submitted, yes, but you are not out of danger yet. Those of you who can reveal to me where your prisoner is kept, the prisoner that is one of us, will be safe. This, I promise you.”

At once, a guard stepped forwards. He had a pitiful countenance, a pathetic stance, as he said, “he is in the dungeons, my lord. Please, don’t kill me.”

“Wiltbourne, you fucking traitor!” the Duke spat, but was violently silenced by the soldiers holding him.

The Vasaath glared at the man with narrowed eyes. “Is he still alive?”

But the guard only shook his head. “I-I don’t know, sir.”

“He is alive.” From amongst the surrenders, a boy with rosy cheeks and silver eyes stepped forth. Sebastian Arlington tried to straighten and look unfazed by the situation, but he was clearly terrified.

The Duke suddenly started to writhe in the soldiers’ grip. “Sebastian, shut your—” One of the soldiers slapped him, and the Vasaath urged the boy to speak.

“He is alive, and he would not be pleased to know what has happened here tonight.”

The Vasaath scowled, but could not withhold a smirk. “You speak as if you know him…” Slowly, he moved towards the boy. “Indeed, he is not very keen on violence, but trust me, boy—he is just as much Kas as I am, and he would rather see the world burn than compromise the mission.”

Sebastian Arlington wavered—he swallowed nervously and his eyes flickered. “But he said—”

“I don’t doubt that he told you he would not want war,” said the Vasaath, “and his words were the undoubtedly the truth, but he knew all along that war was inevitable.” He then huffed and turned to his men. “Put the boy and the old man in the dungeons, and bring me Kasethen. You.” He turned to the man who had revealed the truth, and he whimpered. “You will show them to the dungeons.”

“Y-yes, sir!” The middle-aged soldier was hardly scathed at all. He had knelt the moment he’d seen the Kas warriors.

As the Vasaath watched the Duke and his son be taken away, he turned to one of his _rasaath._ “How many did we lose?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet, sir,” said the soldier. “We lost some, but most are still alive. Many are wounded, though.”

The Vasaath nodded. “Get the _maasas_ here as soon as possible.”

“But sir, we need to address the situation down in the city first. They must have sent half their forces down there.”

“Yes, you’re right,” the Vasaath muttered. “But I want to make sure Kasethen is alive before we do anything.” He clenched his jaw. “If he’s not, I’ll kill every last one of them.”

* * *

**Translation:**

**Kasaath** – _warrior_ ; “strength of the people”  
 **Kaseraad** – _spies_ ; “the shadow of the people”  
 **Maasa** – _healer_  
 **Rasaath** – _officer_ ; dutiful soldier; true soldier


	52. The Dark Before the Dawn: VIII

** VIII **

  
Being told to stay put when war was just about to break loose was vexing, but Juniper did as told and stayed in her tent. She had to trust that it would be safer for her, and that the Vasaath wouldnʼt do anything to put her in harm’s way. She listened to the men as they readied themselves for war, and as the darkness fell and the storm grew stronger, a terrible feeling settled inside of her.

That was when she heard the turmoil and the tumult in the city—she knew the Kas hadn’t marched yet, because she would have heard it. This, she knew, was coming from the city. Something was happening, and it terrified her. Without caring about the Vasaath’s orders, she ran out into the rain.

_Ohkasnon_ warriors were still stationed inside the fort and one of them saw Juniper dash out into the courtyard and quickly raced to her side. “My lady, you have to go back inside! It’s the Vasaath’s orders!”

“To the Netherworld with his orders!” Juniper spat and pried her arm from the warrior’s grip.

“No, my lady!” the warrior protested and swiftly wrapped his arms around her waist to drag her back to the tent. There was a struggle, but no matter how much she fought the man, his grip was steadfast.

She cursed at him, clawed at him, and did everything she could to escape her prison, but the warrior tried to calm her down. Suddenly, the two combatants ceased as the ominous knell of the guard bell rung over the city. The Vasaath’s strong voice carried in the wind, and even though Juniper couldnʼt understand his words, she knew the war cry of the Grey Ones.

“I need to know what is happening!” she slurred out and sprinted from her captor before he had the chance to wake from his sudden paralysis. She hurtled towards the battlements and flew up the stairs to gaze out over the city. She saw torches in the dark, heard the yells of men and women, and saw the army of two hundred Kas warriors march into the streets.

The _ohkasenon_ was suddenly next to her, gazing out over the same scene with gritted teeth. “Come now, my lady,” said he. “You should get to safety.”

“What is happening out there?”

The man was silent for a short moment before muttering, “war.”

Juniper came willingly then. Her heart thudded violently in her chest and her limbs were weak, and she was soaked to the bone. Well inside the tent, she could see the pain in the _ohkasenon’s_ face. He was not from her culture, with his olive skin, dark hair, and bright hazel eyes—but she could sense kinship in him nonetheless. He did not have the stern face of a Kas, and he was clearly taken by the screams of women and children. But he gathered himself, bowed, and stepped back out into the rain. Juniper thought about inviting him in again, just to let him dry a bit, and perhaps have a cup of tea, but she refrained.

She changed from her soaked apparel and made herself some tea, but could not drink it. She fiddled nervously with her necklace, paced the tent, and tried to drown out her own thoughts by covering her ears. The pouring rain against the thick canvas muffled the sounds from the outside well enough, but she could clearly imagine the horror. She was beyond relief when Neema dashed into her tent, just as worried as Juniper. The two women embraced, and Juniper asked if the _maasa_ knew what was happening.

“I don’t know,” said Neema. “The Kas never attack the citizens like this.”

“No,” said Juniper, “they marched after the tumult had begun.”

Neema furrowed her brows before she barked something at the warrior outside the tent, and the olive-skinned man quickly entered. Neema asked him something, and the soldier replied, but Neema did not seem pleased. “Speak clearly, man,” said she in the common tongue. “What is happening?”

The warrior did not seem willing to respond, but neither could he ignore the commands of a well-respected _maasa_. “We elicited a riot to even the odds, _maasa_. The Noxborough guards were too many, we did not have time to fight them all.”

Juniper felt the chill in her core. “The Vasaath did this?”

The warrior turned to her. “He did what he had to do.”

Juniper searched for things to say, but found no words.

Neema told the warrior to leave, and then she gently steered Juniper to take a seat. She made her some new tea and told her to drink it, claiming it would make her feel better, but it did not.

“All those people…” Juniper began, but she could not will herself to finish the sentence.

“If it’s true, and there is a riot, it is hardly the Vasaath’s fault,” said Neema. “A fire needs a spark to ignite, but it needs the air and the fuel to burn. A riot doesn’t start on a whim. It takes years—generations—to build such rage. Just look at the poor people we’ve taken in. They’re starving and sick. This was an eruption that has been brewing for a long time, Juniper. The Vasaath gave them the spark, but they brought the fire. He only took advantage of the chaos.”

She tightened her jaw. “As he took advantage of our fears.”

Neema sighed. “This is what war looks like—it’s not honourable knights in silver armour riding in on white steeds and slaying the horrible beasts. This is no fairytale. War is ugly, and terrible, and grim. People die.” She glared at the girl. “The Vasaath does what he has to in order to protect his own. If he has to use your faith against you to ward off five thousand men, or if he has to give a little push to start a riot long overdue to take the city, then so be it.” Then she sighed. “You need to choose a side, Juniper.”

“But how can I do that?” she hisses. “This is my city, and those are my people! But I lo—” She stopped herself, just before she said something she would regret. She loved the Vasaath, but Neema didn’t have to know that. She didn’t have to know what feelings Juniper shared with the general, or what dreams she had of an impossible future with him. Placing a hand on her belly, she wondered what would become of them both if there truly was a child growing in there. She took a deep breath. “I loathe my father for what he has done to this city, but turning them against each other is not what will save them, and therefore, I can’t approve of it. My place is amongst my people, not against them.”

Neema hardened her gaze and leaned forwards. Lowering her voice, she said, “you’ve already spoken of betrayal once, Juniper. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Juniper snorted, but only to cover the sob that was on its way. “What would I betray? I’m not one of you. I’m a foreigner. Or rather, I’m a prisoner of war.”

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Of course I am,” said Juniper. “I live here under the pretence that I am free to leave whenever I wish to, and yet, I am constantly ordered to remain within this compound.”

“The Vasaath is trying to protect you,” Neema muttered. “You’d know that if you weren’t so tied up in your delusional thoughts and dreams about freedom.” The woman’s face was set hard. “People of the Kasenon do not keep prisoners. You’re a guest here, in respect to your city and your culture, and thus stand under the Vasaath’s protection—but the minute the Vasaath conquers this city in the name of the Kasenon, you are either one of us or you’re an enemy. It’s up to you which you’d prefer.”

Juniper’s chest heaved. She was furious and terrified, and as she looked upon Neema’s face, she realised that this woman had seen war before. She had travelled with the _Saathenaan_ for many years, and this was nothing new to her. She had been hardened by blood and death until her heart had turned into stone. She took a deep breath. “If I am free to leave, there should be nothing stopping me from leaving the city altogether.”

“So you would abandon your own city, then?”

“If I cannot stay and protect my people because it would either make me a traitor or an enemy, I’d save myself by leaving, would I not?”

“You would.” Neema narrowed her eyes. “But why do you want to leave? Have we not treated you well? Has the Vasaath not… treated you well?”

Juniper swallowed and glanced down on the hand on her belly. “I have a good reason to leave.”

Neema caught the gesture and released a deep, tired sigh. “Oh, you foolish girl.”

“I’m not a fool,” Juniper muttered. “I forgot to cleanse, yes, but I am not the only one at fault. Besides, I will love this child with my all my heart.”

For the first time that night, Juniper could see hurt and despair in Neema’s face. “They will take it from you. You understand that, don’t you?”

“That is why I cannot stay.”

Neema sighed. “There might not even be a child. How long has it been? A few days?”

“Yes.” Juniper swallowed and felt her cheeks redden.

“Are you late?”

“No, not yet.”

A sigh of relief escaped the _maasa_. Then she shook her head. “You need to understand the seriousness of this situation, Juniper. Not only are you not of the People, but you’re also not Kas. The Vasaath cannot father children as he pleases, neither can you lie with him as you please. Here, now, it’s different, but when this city is part of Kasarath and when the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon come here, what you and the Vasaath are doing needs to stop. It _has_ to.”

“If I am with child,” Juniper said, “they will take the child from me unless I leave.”

“And where would you go?” Neema asked. “To Westbridge? Across the mountains? And even if you’d find a safe haven, what would you do once the child comes? How would you protect it from judging eyes? It will not look like you.”

Juniper had thought very little about what she would do about her possible situation, but the prospect of being ostracised or perhaps even persecuted was about as tempting as giving her child away to a militaristic regime. Sullen, she dropped her gaze to the table.

Neema sighed. “You won’t leave, and you can’t have a child. Not one that is fathered by the Vasaath himself. If your blood is late, you will come to me and we will sort it out. Do you understand?”

Juniper didn’t want to nod, but found herself doing it anyway.

“Good,” said Neema. “The likelihood of the two of you conceiving is little to none, but it does happen from time to time, and we cannot take any chances.”

They spoke no more of the matter, but Juniper felt even more worried—and uncertain. Would she want to remain in the city once it belonged to the Kas? She did not know.

Later into the night, both Neema and Juniper could hear muffled screams just outside the courtyard, and Juniper spared no thoughts as she rushed out from the tent and into the rain. “What is that?” she demanded from the warrior, but he only ordered her to get back inside. She insisted that she would not.

“There are rioters at the gates,” said the warrior, “but they cannot come in. The gates are locked.”

“That does not sound like rioters!” Juniper spat. “That is people screaming for help!” For the second time that night, she outran the warrior and climbed up onto the battlements. As she looked out over the docks, she saw how a mass of people, mostly women and children, had breached the barricades and stood by the gates, begging to be let inside. Juniper gasped as she gazed out over the city—it was burning, despite the rain. The sound of battle could still be heard over the pouring rain and she realised with a heavy heart that the city had fallen.

The warrior was at her heels, and the moment he’d reached her, he told her to go back to the tent. “It’s safer there, and you’ll be sheltered from the rain!”

“Open the gates,” she commanded and looked the warrior dead in the eye.

He only frowned. “I can’t do that.”

“Those aren’t rioters,” Juniper said and pointed at the people. “Those are women and children seeking shelter from the battle! Open the gates.”

“The Vasaath’s orders are—”

“Open the _bloody_ gates or I’ll fling myself over this wall!” she bellowed, surprised at her own ferocity. “I’ll deal with the Vasaath. Now, let those people in!”

The man glared at her, hesitated, but then he turned to the _ohkasenon_ manning the gates and shouted orders at them. They seemed confused at first, but then the gates slowly swung open. Juniper rushed down to meet the grateful people, and most of them were scared and desperate. There were cries and pleas, but most of them were just thankful they had escaped the fighting. Juniper tried to find out what was truly happening, but all she could get from them was that the people were killing each other.

“They’re tearing limbs off each other!”

“They’re _feasting_ on each other’s flesh!”

“They have all gone mad!”

“The Builder has forsaken us!”

Juniper tried to make sense of it all, but it was too chaotic. People were hurt and bleeding, and no one seemed to understand what was truly happening. Neema had joined them, and she seemed just as shocked. Juniper turned to her. “Some of them are injured, we need to help them!”

Neema was speechless, but as Juniper barked at her to help, even she sprung to action. Some of the _ohkasenon_ warriors around them helped as well, and Juniper had called for the Kamani to help. The injured were led into Juniper’s tent while the others sought shelter from the rain elsewhere. Only a few were severely injured and Neema tended to them while Juniper tended to the others as well as she could. Most were only slightly injured with nasty bruises and some smaller cuts, and they just needed to calm down and perhaps clean some wounds. The children were terrified, devastated. When some of the women had calmed down, Juniper tried again to ask them what was happening in the city, and one woman told her that hundreds of people had found weapons and were attacking each other wildly.

“It all happened so fast,” said another woman. “Before we could realise what was happening, people were not only attacking the guards, but each other too!”

“Yes, it’s complete chaos!”

“They killed my husband! He’s never done anything to anyone! He’s a cobbler, for Builder’s sake!”

Several of them started to yell out the atrocities they had suffered and Juniper tried to calm them down—but they were all too upset.

“Please! _Please_!” Juniper then exclaimed, and the people finally silenced. “It is crucial you stay calm! If not for you, then for the children!” She sighed. “I understand this is terrifying, but you need to stay strong. What is happening seems to be a two-way coup.” She swallowed. “My father… has done many terrible things. What has happened tonight was bound to happen sooner or later. The Grey Ones have launched their attack against my father, as well, and if they win this battle, this city will be lost by dawn.” The people gasped, shocked and horrified, but Juniper gestured at them to calm down. “No, no, do not fret! They wouldn’t attack innocent people—” She took a deep breath before finishing her sentence. “—if you submit to their reign.”

This did not calm the people, but rather the contrary, and she wasn’t surprised. Indeed, they knew very little about the Kasenon and all the good things the philosophy brought—but as she looked at the children in their mothers’ arms, she knew that while the Kasenon might give them what they lacked, it would also take away what mattered the most. She swallowed, placed her hand on her belly, and even though she knew there might not be a child growing inside of her at all, she still whispered, “forgive me.” Taking a deep breath, she raised her voice and declared, “I know this will be a difficult time for you, but you will not face it alone. I shall weather this storm with you all. I shall be your voice. I will do all in my power to protect you.”

At last, this seemed to soothe them. Their Lady would be with them to guide and protect them. Perhaps, in such dire times, they did find some solace in the Arlington name.

As the people gradually calmed, Neema said lowly to Juniper, “you have a kind heart, and I know that your sacrifice is great, but this is where you belong.” Gently, the _maasa_ grabbed Juniper’s arm and squeezed. It was an endearing sentiment, a friendly touch, and a ghost of a smile appeared on the woman’s lips. For the first time, Juniper felt as though the two women truly understood each other.

* * *


	53. The Dark Before the Dawn: IX

** IX **

  
Kasethen was alive, and he was safe. He was beaten and broken, but he was safe. The advisor had nearly collapsed in the Vasaath’s arms as he had been brought up from the dungeons, and the Vasaath carefully carried his broken body to the nearest bed where he could rest. Since no _maasa_ was available, the royal physician was called into the room. The old man was pale, and he could barely utter a single word as the Vasaath stared down at him.

“You will heal him,” the Vasaath demanded. “If you cause him pain, I will hurt you tenfold.”

The man shrunk, his breath weak. “I—I have yielded!”

“And your role is to heal,” the Vasaath boomed. “So _heal_.” He strode past the man and returned to his soldiers. They were still gathered in the large hall, and the surrenders had sat down on the floor. The Kas soldiers straightened as the general entered, and the humans most certainly thought it was time for their judgment—and they were right. He took a deep breath and looked at them all. “You did the right thing: you fought for your Lord, but recognised the strength of the _Saathenaan._ But your trials aren’t over yet. Now you shall learn the truth of the Kasenon. You will earn your place amongst the People. You will earn your right to live and to prosper. We didn’t come here to destroy the city, we came to cleanse. The dethroning of your _former_ leader is one of the means to that end. Containing the unrest is another. City Guards, you are soldiers, with warrior hearts and warrior minds. You can make a choice, here and now. Come with me, fight under my command, and bring peace to the city once more—or, stay here, and await your death.”

The soldiers all looked at each other, frightened and confused, and then they stood, one after another.

“I will fight for you.”

“I-I will also fight for you.”

“You have my sword.”

“I will fight for you, my lord.”

The Vasaath watched as they all stood up and pledged their swords to him. About two hundred City Guards had survived the assault in the castle, and submitted to the Kasenon. He eyed each one of them, wondering how many of them would truly survive until dawn—most were only boys, gaunt and gawky. But he nodded. “Good. The Kas soldiers are your superiors, but they are also your brothers-in-arms. Protect them, and they shall protect you. If any of them tells you to do something out on the field, you do it. Refuse, and you will have gone against my direct orders. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!” the young men answered at once, reminding the Vasaath of how they associated respect with fear. He scowled. Ruling by fear was not to his liking, but it had to do for the moment. At least it kept them in line.

He squared his jaw tightly and looked at his officers. They would never question his decisions, but they were wary. He gave them a slight nod before barking commands. He ordered twenty of his men to remain in the castle and hold it, together with about fifty of the new recruits, before leaving for the city with the rest of his _Saathenaan_ and the City Guard _._

Chaos still reigned amongst the Noxboroughers. The Vasaath and his men barely knew where to start undoing the mess they had created, and they were all rather surprised at how easily and quickly the people had taken the uprising to heart—as though they had waited for years for someone to just tell them to do it. Dead bodies were lying on the ground, guards, nobles, and paupers alike—women and children, people who clearly had been running away from it all. Bodies were dismembered, desecrated, and broken beyond recognition; they were hung, burned, and piled. Some seemed to have been simply trampled to death.

Some were still alive, but only just; a man cried desperately over his lost arm, and another sat dying against a wall with his guts spilling out of his stomach; a woman was crouched over a lifeless child on the street, and an old crone was screaming tirelessly in the middle of the square. Cries of torment rung from everywhere and the sound was not all that different from the haunting cries of a battlefield, but the scene was much different; in the flashes of lightning, it was macabre, nightmarish—even for the Vasaath himself. There was an uncomfortable feeling growing in his stomach when he saw the results of his ruse, but even more so, when he saw the savagery of the mainlanders. None of the Kasenon would ever do such a thing—not even in war. Not even their violent ancestors would have created such mayhem. There was a malady in these lands the Vasaath had never witnessed before, one that turned people into monsters, and he had to admit that it frightened him.

Some guards had survived the mad and uninhibited rioters, and they had bordered themselves up in a house by the Town Square, a house the people now tried to tear down stone by stone. The rain had calmed, but the night was still dark, and smoke lay thick and low over the rooftops. The Vasaath and his men watched the scene as the rioting populace stood, waving with various weapons in hand, and roared and howled at the trapped guards. There must have been at least twice as many as the Kas soldiers, and their fury was boiling. The mass of people swarmed the Town Square, and the Vasaath had to scour the area for a good few minutes before he decided what to do. He ordered his men to surround the crowd, and when they had encircled the rioters, the Vasaath bellowed at them to lower their weapons. His voice was strong and carried over the noisy crowd. Some of the people turned to look at him, and while the ones on the fringe of the crowd, the ones closest to the soldiers, seemed frightened when they had realised that they were surrounded, the ones further into the crowd paid no attention to the Vasaath or to his men.

When he saw this arrogance, he huffed and barked, “ _Saathenaan_! Shields down!” The troops moved in unison as they braced their tall shields in front of them, creating a long wall. “Spears!” the Vasaath shouted, and the men extended their spears towards the crowd, like large skewers sticking out from between the shields. “Hold!” he bellowed. “And march!” The men started to march towards the crowd, pressing out a deep, loud, growl at each step, trapping the people further and further. Their long, sharp spears forced the crowd towards the centre, and the people were screaming and shouting at the foreigners to stop. But they would march until the Vasaath told them otherwise. Panic was quickly spreading in the crowd, and once they were tightly packed, the Vasaath ordered his men to halt and hold. He took a deep breath and bellowed, “people of Noxborough!” Slowly, the screams and shouts silenced, leaving only the sobs, as he caught their attention. “Lay down your weapons, surrender, and you might live. If you don’t, you will die here tonight, on this square.”

There was a moment of complete silence. Only the roaring thunder and the light rain was heard as the people contemplated what had been said. The Vasaath kept his stance, held his assertive stature—all that was needed to turn the tide was one single sign of weakness. He could not afford that. He gave a quick glance at his men, and while the Kas soldiers all stood unfazed by the silence, the human soldiers seemed to hesitate. They made up the second and third row, and the Vasaath knew that if they decided to turn against them, they would be surrounded. But they were scared, and he was confident they feared being torn apart by an angry mob more than they felt a need for turning against the Kas. So they stood their ground, although on trembling legs. There were a few more minutes of silence before the crowd started to shuffle and move and a group of men with swords and torches had made their way from the building where the guards were held up, to where the Vasaath was standing.

“We will not bow to another tyrant!” spat one of the men.

The Vasaath glared at them. “You will bow down or you will die.”

“To the Netherworld with you!” the man shouted before he lunged at the Vasaath with his sword.

It was an easy kill; with only a single strike with his blade, the Vasaath had separated the man’s head from his body. One moment of stillness passed, and then the madness began again. The people screamed, yelled, and ran heedlessly into the fray. The Vasaath roared, “ _Saathenaan_! Spears! And sweep!” The men thrust their spears at the attacking crowd, one wave at a time, and advanced forwards with each kill. The people kept coming at them, and the Vasaath moved forwards as well. Some people fell to their knees and submitted, but if they weren’t trampled down by the rest of the crowd, they were stabbed in the back by furious rioters. The Vasaath reached for as many as he could, and tossed them out of the crowd and behind the soldiers to keep them from being hurt or killed. Soon, no one could separate friend from foe, and several people rushed at the Vasaath and his men for protection. It was almost impossible for them to distinguish the attackers from the surrenders, and many were killed in naught.

Slowly, dawn approached. By first light, there was no telling of how many had died that night. The guards that were held up inside the house had been released, and they had all submitted to the Kas, recognising their superiority in combat. Most of them were young boys, mortified and traumatised by the horrors the night had brought. As the sun rose over the mountains in the east, the streets were painted red. What followed the gruesome fighting was gruelling work to pile bodies and burn them. From the boarded-up houses, people started peeking out, wondering if the fighting had stopped. They all faced the carnage and recognised their defeat.

The soldiers had been able to control the crowd throughout the night, and none of them had been seriously harmed. Amongst the people, however, there were many injuries. The ones with the most severe injuries were tended to first, and the Vasaath ordered the _maasas_ to help. That was when he was informed of the situation at the compound. Furious, he made his way to the fort and barked at the warriors to open the gates. What faced him was a fort filled with people—mostly elders, women, and children—and at first, he felt the rage surge through him. Turning to one of his men, he asked, “what has happened here? Why are these people here?”

The warrior seemed nervous, but said, “Lady Juniper wanted to help them.”

He knew he should not be surprised by this, but he was disappointed at his men for permitting such carelessness. While narrowing his eyes, he hissed, “I told you to hold the gate. That was an order.”

The warrior shrunk under the general’s hard gaze. “The woman was relentless, and we didn’t want to hurt her, or that she’d hurt herself. Great Warrior, I deserve to be punished for neglecting my orders.”

The Vasaath grunted. Indeed, such an error would require correction, but now was not the time. “Where is she?” The warrior gestured towards the lady’s tent, and the Vasaath sighed deeply before he strode over the courtyard and barged in through the canvas. People lay on the floor, hurt and frightened, and in the back, he saw Juniper quickly rising to her feet as she noticed his presence. He felt his chest rise, and he curled his hands into fists, but before he could scold her, she had grabbed his arm and hissed that this was not the place. He followed her out onto the courtyard and over to his quarters. He knew that if there were injured civilians inside _his_ tent, he would toss them out head first—but it was empty.

“Before you tell me how foolish I am,” she started, before he could gather his thoughts enough to utter a single word, “I want you to know that these people never wanted a fight. They have submitted to you, and they are _not_ your enemy.”

He stared at her, bore his eyes into hers, feeling the fury sear through him. He barely knew what to say to her, or how to express his anger. “You could have killed _everyone_ inside this compound,” he finally growled as he towered over her.

The girl wavered slightly before steeling herself. “I would not have ordered the gates opened if there were rioters outside them, but I would never turn my back on refugees!”

The Vasaath took a quick step towards her. “Do you have _any_ idea of what has been going on out there?” he bellowed and pointed at the city. “People have been _cannibalising_ each other!”

“And whose fault is that?” she shouted back and flung her arms out. “ _You_ started this riot! _You_ are to blame!”

The Vasaath laughed loudly, but without any amusement in his voice. “Oh, yes, of course I am, because I’m so powerful, I can create mayhem out of _nothing_! I must be a God!”

“Don’t be so conceited!” Juniper spat. “I know this has been building for many years, but _you_ created the opportunity, and don’t deny it!”

The Vasaath fell silent, not knowing what to answer her. He glared at her, seeing anger flare from her silver eyes, and then he scoffed as he straightened. “No. I won’t deny it. I did create the opportunity.” He looked down his nose at her. “I thought it better they’d kill each other. That way, they would weed themselves out while I took the castle. It worked out just fine.”

Juniper’s face fell, and she looked utterly distraught before she twisted it into a furious scowl and swung her hand across the Vasaath’s face. Despite her delicate hand, the impact was impressively forceful, and the general was shocked—mortified even—that she had dared to strike him. His ear was ringing, his cheek stung, and he stood speechless. The girl slowly backed away, her eyes wide as she stared at the trembling, reddened hand that had just struck the great Vasaath, realising what she had done. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and the Vasaath could see the panic in her face as she looked at him with tears pooling in her eyes.

“Forgive me,” she said breathlessly as she slowly covered her mouth with her hands. “Please! Forgive me!”

It was as though all his anger disappeared as he saw the trembling woman. His cheek still stung, but it was only his pride that was hurt. He couldn’t even imagine how terrifying this night must have been for the girl. Her courage, not only to stand her ground against his soldiers, but also against the Vasaath himself, and to let in people who could very well turn on her, was remarkable. Indeed, he was still furious at her for doing such a reckless thing—she could have been hurt!—but he was impressed by her bravery, and her ferocity. He sighed deeply and pulled her gently to him. “Let me see your hand.”

She seemed confused but did as told.

The Vasaath frowned. It was red and hot. “You do know it was foolish to let these people in, don’t you? You could have been hurt.”

“I had no choice,” she whispered.

He sighed. “You have a good heart.” He gently caressed her reddened palm and chuckled lightly. “It’s a good thing you didn’t use your fist—you would’ve broken your hand.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, still horrified.

“It’s water under the bridge, _menaan_ ,” he said. “We don’t have time to argue about this now. The _maasas_ are needed in the city.”

She looked up at him with her large, silver orbs. “Kasethen?”

He nodded. “He’s alive.”

Taking a deep breath, Juniper nodded. “And my father?”

“In the dungeons, with your brother.”

The girl’s face whitened. “But, I thought…”

The Vasaath shook his head. “He’s still alive, don’t you worry. I’ll keep my word: if he submits, he’ll live.”

Juniper nodded, but the worry was still written all over her face. Then she sighed. “Is it terrible? In the city? Is it as they say it is?”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw. “People are mad—with hunger, with anger, and with hatred. I never, not even in my wildest imaginations, thought it would come to this. The savagery…”

The girl smiled half-heartedly. “We are a fighting people, too, you know. But whereas your people have a history of fighting others, we have a history of fighting each other.” She nodded. “We can be cruel, indeed.”

He looked at her, saw her sadness, and realised that he would never truly understand the nature of her people. The malady was far worse than any battle he had witnessed, and it could hardly be intrinsic to every living creature. Not even animals attacked their own in such savage ways. He could understand human nature—it was much the same as Kas—but these people, these traditions and this history, he could never understand.

* * *


	54. The Dark Before the Dawn: X

** X **

  
Her heart was still racing even after she and the Vasaath had left his tent. She didn’t know what she had been thinking, striking him, but it felt both terrifying—and exhilarating. Her hand still stung, and in the morning light, she could see that his cheek had reddened. His quick forgiveness had shocked her and thrown her off balance. He should be furious with her; she was ready for such anger, but she had not been ready for her own.

The Vasaath was still very much himself as he barked orders at his men around camp. Neema and the other _maasas_ were escorted into the city to tend to the wounded, and Juniper was instructed to head to the castle. She opposed the order, but the Vasaath was not in a mood for negotiation. Before long, she was escorted to Fairgarden by two _ohkasenon_ warriors.

As they moved through the city, Juniper saw the terrible destruction, and she cried. Many of the houses down by the lower districts had been burnt to the ground, but she couldn’t possibly tell which ones had burnt the night before and which had burnt when the guards had been looking for her. She saw bodies in the rubble, some alive and some not, and the streets were wet with blood, rain, and soil. The downpour had stopped momentarily, but it still hung in the air, and the Kas soldiers worked fast as they piled the bodies onto carriages. Juniper had to cover her mouth and nose because of the smell, and even though she felt nauseous looking at all the dead bodies, she could barely look away. She could easily make out which of them had been cut down by precise strikes, and which of them had perished from mindless violence, and the former was sparse in comparison to the latter. She shuddered and quickened her steps. Her mind was teeming with horrible thoughts of what would have happened if this uprising had occurred before the Kas had even arrived. With such rage, would the people have even needed weapons? Would she still be alive or would she be one of the nobles hanging from make-shift gallows?

When Fairgarden towered in front of her, she saw the broken gates and the arrows that were firmly planted into the ground. She swallowed hard, imagining the fear the household must have felt as the castle was breached. She would have been terrified seeing the mighty Kas soldiers march in through the halls of the castle—even though she knew them now, knew their kindness, she could still imagine the fear quite vividly.

Nostalgia, as well as anguish, filled her as she entered into the bailey. So much was different, and yet, it felt as though she never left. She tried to keep her eyes straight ahead and not look at the bodies being carried out by the soldiers. It was difficult to accept the horror that had taken place, but she knew there was nothing she could do to change it. There had never been anything she could have done to prevent it.

Blood had stained the stone floor of the castle. Carpets had been soaked where bodies had lied, and it was almost as if she could hear the screams as they resonated from within the walls themselves. She moved autonomously through the halls and deviated from her escort to wander through the castle by herself. She felt strange, returning home when it wasn’t hers anymore. The soldiers that had escorted her started calling out for her, noticing her absence, and she sighed. She knew they were only following orders and it would not be fair to them to have them scolded by the Vasaath. She called back and they appeared in the room she had entered, relieved.

“My lady,” said one of the soldiers, “you shouldn’t wander off.”

Juniper glared at him. “This is my home. Do not tell me where I can and cannot go in my own home.” The soldiers shared a glance, but nodded. Juniper huffed. “Thank you, but I don’t need your protection anymore. You have more important matters to attend to.” The soldiers nodded again, although hesitantly, and left the room. Juniper sighed deeply and continued through the castle. Faint voices were coming from the evening hall and she made her way there. Several familiar faces met her, and one face in particular made her burst into tears.

“My lady!” Garret rose from the floor and embraced her as she came rushing towards him. “Oh, thank the Builder you’re safe!”

“I am so happy to see you!” Juniper sobbed.

The advisor hushed her and gently patted her on the back. “And I am so happy to see you, my lady.”

She looked up at him. “I knew you’d be wise enough to submit.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. “I’d never have a chance against any of them.”

“What happened?” she asked. “Why did Father kill Cornwall?”

Garret sighed deeply, knitting his brows. “Your father has been… well, you know how he can be.”

Juniper nodded. Indeed, she knew all too well.

“He has had his mind set on beating the Grey Ones from the very start,” said Garret. “When you ran away, jeopardizing the alliance, your father was furious. I have rarely seen him so upset.”

Juniper huffed and dried her tears. “Well, at least it’s a comfort to know that I was right, that he cared more about the stupid alliance than he has ever cared about me.”

Garret sighed. “Your father loves you, in his own way.”

“He has never loved anyone but himself,” Juniper muttered. “Not even Mother.”

Garret opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again. Finally, he said, “how are you? Have you been treated well?”

She nodded. “They have treated me far better than Father ever did.”

The advisor frowned. “I know I should have intervened. Builder knows I tried to calm him, but to no avail. I regret ever letting him be so foul to his own child.”

Juniper smiled gently. “I do not blame you, Garret, and neither should you.”

There was silence between them for a few moments before Garret asked, “what happens now?”

“I don’t know. The city has been taken. That was the Vasaath’s goal.” She sighed and looked around. She only saw a handful of Kas soldiers, and the rest were City Guards, watching over the many people that were sitting in the hall, frightened and in mourning. She whispered, “anyone who doesn’t submit to the rules and the teachings of the Kas, dies.”

Garret clenched his jaw and nodded. “Then we have to make sure as many as possible kneel.”

Juniper nodded, too, her heart heavy. “My thoughts exactly.”

“How is it? To live with them? What are they like?”

“They are much the same as us,” said Juniper. “But very different. They are… stern, militaristic, and harsh, but also very fair, loyal, and respectful. Our people will be fine, but it will be difficult for them to adjust.”

Garret glanced around. “Have you… submitted?”

Juniper tensed. Quickly, she shook her head. “No. Not yet. Although…” She glanced around, too. “I not entirely sure they are aware that I have not—”

Suddenly, a Kas soldier walked towards them. “My lady, I must ask you to stop whispering.”

Juniper snapped her head at the man. “I am speaking with an old friend, there is no harm in that.”

The soldier clenched his chiselled jaw and glared at them both before he nodded and walked away.

Garret narrowed his eyes. “What is your station amongst these grey giants, my lady?”

Her cheeks heated as she looked about. Then she shook her head. “Not now, Garret. I need to see Sebastian, and my father.”

The advisor nodded. “They were taken to the dungeons.” He sighed. “I am quite certain they are to be executed.”

“Only Father,” said Juniper, surprised at her own coldness. “I have secured Sebastian’s life, but he will have to submit.” She swallowed. “I need to persuade him. Otherwise, there is no chance the Vasaath will let him live.”

Garret nodded again. “Politically, it would be wiser for the Grey Ones to make away with both the Duke and Lord Sebastian. I’m proud you’ve managed to sway the warlord, but I worry about you. What have you given for your brother’s life?”

Juniper glared at him and hissed, “what I have given? I would give _anything_ for my brother! And I can assure you, that no fate within the Kasenon is worse than the fate my father had in store for me, the one _you_ helped secure.”

There was shame in Garret’s face as he gave a quick nod and dropped his gaze.

“I’m going to find my brother and father now,” said she. “Do as they tell you, keep your head down, and stay out of trouble. If the Vasaath comes looking for me, tell him the truth. He can’t stand liars.” When the advisor nodded, Juniper returned the nod and strode up to the soldier that had approached her earlier. As he looked down on her with furrowed brows, she demanded to be let into the dungeons.

“Why do you want to go down there, my lady?” he asked.

“I wish to speak with my father and my brother.”

He hesitated. “Why?”

“Do I need a reason to speak with my family?” she huffed.

The soldier seemed indecisive. “No, but I’m not sure the Vasaath would approve.”

Juniper sighed. “I only want to speak to them. You could come with me if you think I’m going to betray you.”

The soldier was suddenly shocked. “Of course I don’t, _ohkas-aamon_.” He then nodded. “I am only concerned for your safety.”

She smiled half-heartedly. “Thank you, but I’ll be just fine.”

The soldier grunted and led the way to the dungeons. Another Kas was guarding the gates. She was let inside and she thanked the two soldiers for their assistance before she walked into the darkness. A torch flickered further in, and she grabbed it and held it in front of her. Prisoners howled at her as she walked by the cells, whistled and called her foul names, and the stench was unbearable. She held her head up high, not wanting the criminals to see how uncomfortable she was or how disgusted she was by their comments. She scoured the cells in the search for her brother, and at last, she found him. She gasped. “Sebastian!”

“Juniper!” Her brother rushed to the bars. “You’re alive!”

“Of course I am!” she laughed as tears began streaming down her face. She placed the torch into the holder on the wall and reached for his hands. “Are you alright? Are you unharmed?”

Sebastian nodded. “I’m fine. But Juniper… the city…”

“I know.” She gently caressed his hands with her thumbs. “I know.”

“What do we do?”

She looked at him and sighed. “It’s over, Sebastian. They won. We have no army, no means to fight back. And we should not be foolish.”

Sebastian swallowed. “They cut through us like a scythe through dry grass. How could I have been so arrogant? Our men had no training in meeting someone like this. They’re monsters, Juniper. Dangerous and relentless!”

Juniper shook her head. “They’re not monsters, Sebastian. They are people, like you and I. We have more in common than what separates us. They don’t wish us harm, if we do as they say.”

“I refuse to become a mindless killer!” Sebastian spat.

“They aren’t mindless killers!” Juniper cried and snapped her hands back.

“How do you know?” Sebastian said. “You’ve only been with them for a month or so!”

“I have known them all summer!”

“Still not enough to _know_ them!”

“I know that they dream, they laugh, they fear,” she hissed and dried her tears, “and they love. That’s enough for me.”

Her brother narrowed his eyes. “Father was right, wasn’t he? You _are_ his whore!”

“Sebastian!” she barked. “How dare you?”

“How could _you_?” Sebastian retorted. “How could you lower yourself to such _filth_?”

“If you must know,” Juniper growled, but lowered her voice. “If you must know, he is ten times the man our father gifted me to. For one, he has never hurt me!”

Sebastian’s face fell. “So he hasn’t… _forced_ himself on you?”

Juniper shook her head. “No! Never! He is a good man and a fair leader. He has promised to keep you alive, if you submit to their rule.”

Her brother laughed coldly. “Well, isn’t that a grand and romantic promise? The same he has given everyone—kneel and live! Don’t be naive, Juniper.”

Juniper huffed. “Don’t be foolish, Sebastian! You’re the heir to Noxborough, do you really think a conqueror would let you live?”

“You said he would.”

“Yes, as a gift for me, but only if you submit.”

The boy scoffed. “And you _believe_ him?”

“The Vasaath is many things, but he is not a liar,” she muttered. When her brother only pouted, she said, “don’t throw your life away because of stubbornness! Don’t be like Father! You have been granted a second chance, can’t you see that? Don’t squander it on pride and stubbornness!”

Sebastian refused to answer and stepped back.

Juniper gritted her teeth. “Think about it. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, then do it for me. Stay alive for me.” The boy wrapped his arms around himself and disappeared into the darkness. Juniper sighed deeply and grabbed the torch. “I’ll come back with some food and a blanket for you later,” she muttered before continuing into the dungeons. Anger and disappointment washed over her, but she knew her brother. She knew he could be stubborn and childish, but she thought it would be different when his life was in jeopardy. She prayed to the Builder that the Vasaath would give her enough time, but she knew very well that the Vasaath’s patience was no match for the Arlington stubbornness.

Her father was exactly where she expected him to be—in the Pit. It was the deepest and darkest cell, far beneath the castle. It was once built to house one of history’s most notorious criminals, over five hundred years prior, and now, it housed her father. She found him down there, with a broken nose, cradling his hand in a strange grip. “Father?”

He gazed up, and she could see the resentment in his eyes. “So… you’ve finally returned.” His speech was slurred, impaired. “I suppose you told him everything he needed to know to storm the castle.”

“I didn’t need to tell him,” she said. “He was clever enough to figure it out on his own. If anything, you were foolish enough to provoke him with your demands.”

“Demands?” Richmond huffed. “I never sent—oh… of course there was another traitor in my midst. Who was it? Garret? Of course it was. I knew he would betray me sooner or later, that cunt. I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Was it worth it?” Juniper asked. “All of it?” She walked closer to the bars. “Was it worth starving your people to earn some coin? Was it worth selling me, your only daughter, to a despicable man to create a shallow alliance?” Gripping the bars, she hissed, “was it worth risking _everything_ for your petty pride?”

“At least I _have_ pride!” Richmond spat and rose from the floor on shaking legs. “You, on the other hand, _daughter_ … you are a traitor! A coward! A whoring coward traitor who has betrayed your country, your people, and your family! Just look at you! What would Eleanor say?”

She grabbed the bars tighter and barked, “you do not get to utter her name!” She cursed herself for her tears, but she cared not that they fell down her face. “You never loved her! You made her life into a living nightmare, and I would not be surprised if _you_ were the reason she died!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Juniper,” her father spat. “She died of fever.”

“She died because of _your_ neglect, and don’t you dare deny it!”

“Your mother was weak,” he growled. “She was feeble-minded and fragile, and you’re just like her.” He scoffed. “You deserve being their whore.”

Juniper took a step back and shook her head. “You’re not even worthy of my hatred. I pity you, did you know that? After seeing what a real and fair leader is like—”

“Yes, please, tell me about what a real and _fair_ leader is like, you who know so much about politics,” Richmond mocked. “I did a little reading myself about those grey bastards, you see, and lo and behold, there is plenty of testimony claiming that they aren’t one bit better than any of us.” He walked closer to the bars. “Let me tell you about your beloved beasts: they have plundered, and pillaged, and ravished lands for hundreds of years. They claim it’s to ‘cleanse’, but all they do is steal the food and resources and leave the land barren. And the people… well, there are plenty of islands in the west that are nothing but graveyards nowadays. But your real and fair leader didn’t tell you _that_ , did he? Put your life in the hands of such beasts, and they will take it from you without any regrets. You’re nothing to them.”

Juniper raised her head. “You cannot frighten me, Father. You cannot poison my mind any longer. I wash my hands of you.” She took a deep breath. “May the Builder watch over you and guide you to the Void.” She then turned on her heels and headed for the staircase.

“So I will die, then?” Richmond asked.

Juniper stopped, but did not turn. “Yes.”

“Good,” he muttered. “I am happy their true colours are showing. One day, you will know I was right.” Juniper did not answer and hurried up the stairs, but she heard her father’s voice carry between the stone walls as he yelled, “I was right!”

* * *

**Translation:**

**Maasa** – _healer_  
 **Ohkas-aamon** – honourable stranger; “not of Kas but deemed worthy of the people”  
 **Ohkasenon** – foreign follower of the Kasenon; “follower of the faith of the people but not of the people”


	55. The Dark Before the Dawn: XI

** XI **

  
The evening was closing in, and after a gruesome fight and a long day’s work, the Vasaath and his _Saathenaan_ had gathered on the shores where they had built pyres for their fallen brothers. Wrapped in linen, twelve Kas soldiers lay on a pyre each, their swords and shields placed on their chests and round pebbles covering their eyes.

When the dark had fallen, the Vasaath held his torch up high, and eleven of his brothers followed. “May the Mother’s grace lead them.” Closing his eyes, he bowed his head and muttered the words, “ _aamon-at an avaas, aamon-at an evos_.” He wished they were indeed true; honour in life, and glory in death. When the twelve torches ignited the pyres, the flames quickly grabbed hold of the tinder, licking the wood and the linen. The fires stood high against the dark heavens, perfectly mirrored in the calm, dark waters of the bay.

Afterwards, there was a celebration in honour of their victory and of those who had perished. The Vasaath was pleased to find that the castle household was fearful enough to follow his orders and had made a feast in a grand hall, with food from the Duke’s stores—it was evident that there was indeed plenty of food for the people, but the Duke kept it all for himself and his court. But the greedy old Duke was a thing of the past, as the age of the Kasenon had just begun.

The celebration was rowdy and unhinged, when all tension and anticipation that had been building for the past months had finally been released. The men could finally relax, and they took advantage of every minute. The Vasaath could even spy some of the _ohkas_ seeming quite unafraid as their curiosity of the grey men got the better of them—many of the female staff and the court ladies were especially interested in the strong and exotic males, much to the _kasaath’s_ satisfaction; few would dare to suggest something intimate, but many seemed content with the prospect that something of the sort _might_ happen. At celebrations like this one, far away from Kasarath, many often forgot about rules and traditions; even the _ohkas_ seemed to find relief in the absence of judgment. The Vasaath knew what it was like, being uplifted by victory and thinking one could take on the world, so he would not reprimand them for being alive, as long as they were respectful.

_Ohkas_ in abundance seemed grateful, and mighty surprised, that they, too, could eat from the table. Anyone who submitted to the Kasenon, the Vasaath had declared, was welcomed at his table, rich as poor. And ate, they did, as though they had never seen food before.

Kasethen was up, as well, enjoying the feast and the victory. He was still badly bruised and weakened from the ill-treatment he had received while imprisoned, but he was alive, and he was smiling.

The Vasaath, admittedly a bit intoxicated, swung his arm around his advisor’s shoulders and ignored his painful hiss as he said, “here we are, old friend, at victory again. This has been an irksome one, I must admit, but the victory tastes all the sweeter.”

Kasethen sighed. “Yes, well, it might taste sweet to you. For me, it stings.”

“Oh come now, what is a battle without some wounds?” the Vasaath boomed. Then, as he scanned the crowd, his gaze fastened at a pair of brilliant silver orbs. “Speaking of sweet…” He swung the last of his ale down his throat before he swiftly made his way to the girl. She was standing by the back archway, overlooking the festivities, but she seemed saddened, aloof. He smiled at her, and although he wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her, he just bowed his head. “Why the sombre face, my lady? This is a celebration.”

The girl smiled fleetingly before she curtsied. “Congratulations, my lord.”

He eyed her longingly, wanting nothing but to touch her soft skin and taste her lips. Carefully, he touched the fabric of her dress. “You know this castle. You must know somewhere the two of us could be alone?”

She gawked up at him. “But this is your feast, sir, in your honour. You cannot leave your own feast!”

With a smirk, he glanced over his shoulder. “My men seem to be doing just fine without me. Besides…” He gazed at her, bore his eyes into hers. “I have another, more private, kind of celebration in mind.”

Her cheeks quickly reddened, the way he found so endearing, and she swallowed. “You’re bold tonight, sir.”

“I’m filled with good meat, ale, wine, and victory,” he chuckled. “It’s a pleasant evening, and I would like it to end even more pleasant. Wouldn’t you?”

Juniper smiled and slowly put a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, making the Vasaath almost forget himself as he grabbed a fistful of her dress. She quickly and gently slapped his hand to release her before she beckoned him to follow her. They disappeared into the maze that was Castle Fairgarden, and the Vasaath wondered if he would ever, even sober, be able to navigate through this immense fortress on his own.

At last, he followed her into a room far away from the feast and he was immediately hit by the smell of lavender. This, he knew, was her room. It was moderate and sensible, much like her, with a writing desk and bookcases that lined the walls. A large window overlooked the city and the Winter Sea, with pillows on the sill. Next to them lay an open book, and it pained his heart to see the evidence that the girl had had to escape in a hurry. He was pulled back from his sentiment thoughts as he heard her close the door behind them, and he turned to her. She seemed nervous, or perhaps embarrassed, as she leaned against the door. The Vasaath trapped her there, eager, and sought her lips for a kiss. He had been longing for her, yearning even, and now it felt as though she was part of his victory as he claimed her sweet lips.

He might have been too hasty, or too demanding, as the girl gently but firmly pushed him away. “My love, I don’t have the herbs.”

“Let’s call for a _maasa_ , then,” he replied and leaned in to kiss her again, but she fended him off.

“No, let them celebrate.”

He huffed, feeling slightly vexed by this. “Well, I’ll be careful, then.”

“No,” she mumbled and turned her head when he once again tried to kiss her. “I cannot risk it.”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw and sighed, frustrated. “Are you so worried we might conceive?”

“Are you not?” She glared at him, but her eyes were nervous.

“No,” he said. “It’s unlikely our intimacy would result in a child. Our kinds don’t mix well.”

“Yes, well, it does happen,” she muttered.

The Vasaath narrowed his eyes. “And you know this, because?” The girl’s cheeks flushed violently and she looked away, but he caught sight of her hand as she swiftly moved it to her belly. His heart suddenly dropped. “Did you forget to drink the Shadow Veil?”

The girl gave him a small, reluctant nod.

“And...” He swallowed. “Has anything... latched on?” He should have taken care.

Juniper quickly shook her head. “I don’t know.”

This calmed him some. It had not been many days since their intimacy—there was still time to rectify such a wrong.

She bit her lip as guilt stained her pretty face. “I’m sorry.”

He knew he should be more worried, that he should be vexed—indeed, had she been of the Kasenon, she would have known that such an error could result in harsh punishments—but he could not blame the girl, for he had been at fault as well. He should have been careful. If anything, he should be the one to feel shame and guilt. He shook his head. “Don’t be.” He sighed and gently ran his fingers through her hair. “We’ll cross that mountain when we get to it, _if_ we get to it.”

“Neema said she would ‘take care of it’,” Juniper muttered. “I suppose she means to get rid of it.”

The Vasaath bit his tongue. It had to be done, yes, but he knew she would not understand why. He could sense her bitterness, even though it was highly unlikely she was with child at all. He could, nevertheless, not be bothered by such a discussion at that very moment—he knew it would only end with them both getting angry at one another. It might have been because of his slight intoxication, but his needs were too great to risk a row. While sensually brushing his fingers along her throat, down to her collar bones, he said, “so if the damage is already done, we have nothing to lose.” He furrowed his brows, and added, in earnest, “with your permission, of course, my lady.”

She looked at him, her silver eyes like a doe’s. She swallowed, her breath short, and he waited for her to make up her mind. Finally, she nodded. So he kissed her, cautious at first, careful not to overstep any boundaries she may have set unbeknownst to him, but she put her hands around his neck and responded with a soft sigh.

It was all he needed to take her in his arms and carry her to the bed. He revelled at the taste and the feel of her; he had earned his victory, and he had earned his spoils. He had the city, and he had the lady.

There was a new feel to the two of them, as well, one he had not anticipated—he had broken the rules from the very beginning by giving in to his desires in the first place. Now, he was fully committed to breaking every rule there was and be with this woman, just this woman, who was not a _maasa_ , who was not of the Kasenon, simply because he wanted to—simply because he found pleasure in it, and because she made him feel things no one else could make him feel. It was a new sensation, a strange sense of freedom he had never truly felt before, and he relished in it, savoured it. It felt good claiming something for himself, and he was pleased by the thought that she was his alone. If was selfish, and perhaps unfair, but for that evening, he did not care.

He simply couldn’t get enough of her, despite his tiredness. Her skin was too soft, her taste was too sweet, and her cries were too pleasurable. She was addictive, enthralling, and this was the true victory and triumph he had sought for. She was his, and he was hers, and that night, in her room, nothing else made sense and the world outside did not exist.

* * *

**Translation:**

**Aamon-at en avaas, aamon-at an evos** – “Honour in life, glory in death”  
 **Kasaath** – _warrior_ ; “strength of the people”  
 **Maasa** – _healer_  
 **Ohkas** – (oh ma-kas); _stranger_ ; “not of Kas”; “not of the people”  
 **Saathenaan** – elite warriors; “deepest strength”


	56. The Dark Before the Dawn: XII

** XII **

  
Kasethen celebrated with his brothers and sisters, indeed, but the victory was bittersweet. He had not seen the destruction in the city first hand, but he had heard of it in great detail. He wasn’t surprised the Vasaath chose to utilise the citizen’s unrest and growing contempt, but he would have advised against it—and perhaps he would have been able to sway the general. People who had gotten a taste of absolute freedom, no matter how chaotic, would not bow down easily. The Vasaath’s solution was, of course, to kill all who refused to bow, but that would only trigger the rest. Such situations required delicate politics, something Kasethen knew the general was not apt to practice. So, while everyone else saw victory, Kasethen only saw the tedious work that lay ahead of them.

When he watched his friend and leader intently chase after Lady Juniper, he let his smiling face fall and exchanged it for a frown. He was still sore and bruised, and in his heart, there was a hole torn open, one he thought had healed a long time ago. When he woke up that afternoon, in a warm bed, he had thought it was a dream at first. He had called out for Tiku, but once he had realised that he was no longer down in the dungeons, that he was no longer on the verge of dying, Tiku had disappeared. It had saddened him, and he had felt profound loneliness. As he sat amongst his brothers and sisters, that loneliness was still there, growing like a dark hole. He knew the looks the Vasaath gave to the young lady, and he wondered if he would ever experience such a feeling again. He thought he had accepted that Tiku was no longer with him, and that he had even moved on from the grief, but seeing him down in the darkness had opened up a wound inside of him that he now knew would never heal.

He wasn’t all in his right mind when he made his way back down to the dungeons—all he could think of was that he wanted to see Tiku, just one more time. He knew he had begged for his forgiveness, that he had wanted to live, but knowing the emptiness that was a life without him, he just wanted to see him one last time. The smell was repulsive, and the sounds from the prisoners made him cringe; every lash, every hit, every kick... the thirst and the hunger, the shackles, and the painful breaths... the memories were fresh, the wounds still healing.

He wondered how long the other prisoners would be permitted to live. Duke Arlington would not be executed until the Triumvirate had gathered to pass his sentence, but the rest of the prisoners would have the chance to plead their case with the Vasaath before he would pass his judgment. Kasethen was quite certain, however, that his friend didn’t have much compassion left for the mainlanders, and it wasn’t likely that he would grant any of them pardon, not even if they submitted to the Kasenon.

As he walked through the blackness, his senses on edge, he noted a boy sobbing in a cell much like his own. He stopped outside the door and the boy quickly silenced and looked up, blind in the dark.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice thin.

“It’s only me, Sebastian,” said Kasethen softly.

“Oh…” While drying his eyes, Sebastian pulled his knees to his chin. “Why are you standing in the dark?”

“I don’t need light to see.”

The boy huffed. “Freaks.”

Kasethen chuckled. “And here I was thinking humans were the strange ones…”

“Have you come to kill me?”

“No.” He sighed. “There will be a trial for you and your father once the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon have come. It will lead to execution, of course, but the trial will determine how you die.”

The boy burst out sobbing again and hid his face in his hands.

Kasethen tightened his jaw. He felt uncomfortable thinking about this young man dying—if he was a criminal, his only crime was to be the son of the Duke. He sighed and grabbed the bars. “There might be a chance for you to live,” he said, no truly knowing why he lied to the boy. “If you submit to the Kasenon and promise your absolute devotion, you might be spared.” Or at least, he thought, he would receive a merciful death.

Sebastian snivelled and gazed up. Despite the dark, Kasethen could see his reddened eyes. “My sister has already tried to convince me to sell myself,” he spat. “But why would I do that? It would only be your general’s gift to my sister, not to me.”

Kasethen creased his brow. “What?”

“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” He snivelled again, but when Kasethen was silent, he scoffed. “Apparently, your general has promised my sister that I’d be spared if I only kneeled. Why would a warlord promise something like that to an enemy?”

A corner of Kasethen’s mouth curled upwards; the girl must have truly melted the Vasaath’s heart, a feat Kasethen thought nearly impossible only a year ago. “Love,” he then said. “He loves your sister, and your sister loves you. That is your protection.”

The boy snivelled yet again. “Love is not real.”

A sharp pain shot through Kasethen’s heart at the bitter comment. This young boy had been so deprived of love that he, still in his teenage years, didn’t believe in its existence. He sighed. “Of course it is. Your sister loves you with all her heart, even if you can’t see it.”

“Well, where is she then?” Sebastian spat, his voice breaking. “She promised to be back with food and a blanket, but she hasn’t come!”

Kasethen sighed. “I’m afraid she is detained. It’s not her fault. I could go and fetch it for you, if you’d like?”

“Don’t bother,” the boy muttered. “I’m going to die anyway, so I might as well freeze or starve to death. Makes no difference, does it?”

“So you won’t take the chance to save yourself?” Kasethen asked.

“I’m not a fool,” Sebastian scoffed. “I’ll never come out of this alive.”

“You don’t trust your sister?”

“Oh, I trust my sister,” said Sebastian. “She has a good heart and would never lie about something like that. Your general, on the other hand, I _don’t_ trust.”

Kasethen nodded. “You’re wise, not to trust strangers. But would you trust _me_ , then, if I vouched for the Vasaath’s honour?”

The boy was silent for a moment, before he muttered, “no.”

Kasethen sighed again. He did not blame the boy for not trusting any of them—indeed, from his point of view, Kasethen’s people were nothing but warmongering invaders. But looking at the boy in the darkness, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for his condition. Likewise, he could sympathise with him, having been closed inside a prison himself merely a day earlier. He clenched his jaw and turned to leave the dungeons.

“Where are you going?” Sebastian called after him in the dark, his voice desperate.

“Don’t you worry, boy,” Kasethen said. “I’ll be back shortly with some food for you.”

“Do you promise?”

Kasethen halted and glanced over his shoulder. The words seemed to echo even though there was no echo, and Kasethen sighed. The boy had scrambled to the door and clung to it blindly. “I promise.” He then hurried back into the hall where the festivities were held. Spirits were still high and without the Vasaath’s presence, the soldiers had turned bold and daring, drinking more than they should and trying the mainlanders’ boundaries in scandalous ways. Kasethen ignored the rowdy and loud soldiers and gathered some food from the table and wrapped it in his robes before he grabbed a jug of water and returned to the dungeons. He brought with him a torch this time, to make it comfortable for the boy, and when he saw the boy again, he could see relief in his eyes. He truly thought he would be left alone on the dark again. Kasethen stayed with him for a good while, keeping him company as he ate and drank until he was full. They didn’t speak, but Kasethen could sense that the boy was afraid to be left alone.

“Do you want me to fetch you a blanket?” Kasethen asked, breaking the silence.

“No,” Sebastian muttered.

Kasethen sighed. “Very well.” He rose, and heard the boy scurry to his feet as well.

“Are you leaving?”

“It’s late,” Kasethen said, “and I’m still not fully recovered from my stay down here.” He saw the fear and the uncertainty in the young man’s eyes, and he furrowed his brows. He knew the fear of not knowing how long one’s stay would become, or if one would be awakened by a crude kick to the guts. “You will not have to worry about being beaten,” he then said. “We, unlike your presumptions, aren’t savages.” He sighed and shook his head—prisons were torturous, but the uncertainty was even more so. “I’ll leave the torch. It might be a comfort.”

But Sebastian’s face turned into a scowl. “I don’t need _comfort_.”

Kasethen eyed him, scrutinised him, and scoffed internally at the mainlanders’ ridiculous interpretation of strength. Asking for a blanket on in a cold and damp cell was not a sign of weakness, but self-preservation—but if the boy wanted to be stubborn, Kasethen would not press the issue further. He said good night and left the dungeon.

* * *


	57. The Dark Before the Dawn: XIII

** XIII **

  
Juniper awoke from a terrible dream, clutching at her throat as though she was being strangled by starving people. Her breath was short, and as she sat up, she felt the soreness sting throughout her body, reminding her that she was alive and awake. The Vasaath was sleeping soundly next to her and even though she had grown up thinking her bed was enormous, it looked rather small with him in it.

She fought the ache and slid out from underneath the covers, careful not to wake the slumbering giant, as she gently and slowly pulled her shift over her head and let it fall over her body. With a sigh, she walked up to the window. The city was dark and still and stars were brilliant against the sky, but from the east, the horizon had turned into a careful, purple hue, foretelling the rising sun.

She suddenly gasped, remembering that she left her poor brother down in the dungeons when she had promised to bring him food. She quickly grabbed a blanket from her daybed and carefully lit a candle by the nightstand. She made sure the Vasaath was still sleeping before she took the candle and the blanket and silently left the room. As she walked across the cold floors through the castle, she could hear voices here and there, as a testimony that the celebration wasn’t quite over just yet. Her experienced feet brought her directly to the kitchen where there were plenty of leftovers for her to grab and wrap in a cloth. Silently, she made her way to the dungeons. A Kas soldier, the same as before, stood by the gates, looking focused and determined. Juniper carefully moved closer with her lit candle.

“My lady,” the soldier said and bowed his head. “What are you doing up?”

“I’m bringing some food and a warm blanket for my brother,” said Juniper.

The soldier furrowed his brows and tightened his jaw, looking rather displeased.

“Is that prohibited?” she asked.

“No, my lady,” the soldier said, and then he eyed her. “But your feet are bare. Are you sure you wish to go down there is such a condition?”

Juniper looked down. Indeed, her feet were bare and cold, but she smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage just fine.”

The soldier nodded, still not entirely convinced, and stepped aside. “Do you want me to accompany you?”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to speak to my brother alone.” The soldier respected this and Juniper descended the stairs, down to the dark dungeons. She was as silent as she possibly could, careful not to wake the other sleeping prisoners. So she hurried, her bare feet light on the cold and wet floor, through the maze and towards her brother’s cell. Some prisoners noticed her, but most just gasped as though they had seen a ghost.

“Sebastian,” she whispered when she had reached her brother. “Sebastian, are you awake?”

She heard her brother stir and sigh before he shifted into the light and muttered, “I’m surprised anyone can sleep in this dirt hole.”

Juniper smiled half-heartedly. “It’s not forever. You’ll be out soon, I promise.” She gently pushed the blanket through the bars. “Here, in case you’re cold. And I brought food.”

“You’re a bit too late,” Sebastian muttered.

Juniper bit her lip. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I was… I couldn’t retire.”

Sebastian was silent for a little while before he said, “I hope you enjoy spreading your legs to the beast-man, because that will probably your future now. Or death, of course.”

She wanted to yell at him, to tell him to stop being such a child, but she bit her tongue. She was too tired to enter into an argument with her brother, whom she knew would not understand her until he had seen the Kas for who they truly were. He would not understand. So she just sighed and asked, “will you at least eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat, Sebastian.”

“I have already eaten,” he said. “Apparently, the grey bastards care more about me than you do.”

Her chest tightened. She should have come down earlier, she knew she should have. Had the Vasaath ordered one of his men to feed him? She sighed and leaned her head against the bars. “You will be out soon, I promise.”

“Just go.” Sebastian slipped back into the darkness, and Juniper felt the bitter sting of rejection.

She sighed and whispered, “I’ll be back later in the morning,” but Sebastian did not reply. She didn’t linger, and took the candle and the food and headed back. Again, she hurried, rushing past the others like a spectre. Outside the gate, the soldier stood firmly, still as strict as when she went down.

Juniper stopped by him, looked at him, and asked, “have you been there all night?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Haven’t you been celebrating with the others?”

“No, my lady. This is my duty.”

Juniper nodded. “Well,” she sighed and handed him the cloth of food. “Here. Have something to eat.”

The soldier glanced hesitantly at the bundle she handed him, and carefully accepted it. “Thank you, my lady.”

She nodded. “It’s my pleasure.” She hurried back through the corridors and into her chambers. The Vasaath was still sleeping, and he certainly needed it. Juniper carefully crawled back to bed, wrapping her cold feet in the cover and leaned her cheek against his chest. But she could not sleep.

As dawn approached, slowly filling the room with light, the general stirred and pulled her closer. Carefully, he caressed her arm and her back, but his brows furrowed. As he drowsily opened his eyes in slits, he said, voice slumberous, “why are you wearing this thing?” He pulled at her shift, surprised he didn’t find her in the nude—where he had left her.

Juniper chuckled. “I went to see Sebastian. I had promised to bring him food and a blanket.”

The Vasaath yawned. “Your brother is spoiled. He can’t survive one night without food and a _blanket_?” He huffed and shifted. “He has to grow up sometime.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I don’t care about what you think. I won’t let my brother go hungry or be cold if I can remedy it.”

“I know,” he said and planted a kiss on her forehead. “You rarely care about what I think.”

She smiled. “Why should I?”

He scoffed and gently jerked her chin upwards. “That’s no way to speak to a leader.”

“Well, in case you have forgotten, you’re not my leader,” she teased.

He smiled back at her, and slowly put a strand of hair behind her ear. “No. I’m not.”

She looked into his golden eyes and felt warmth spread through her body. Her belly was fluttering and her heart was racing. “I love you,” she whispered.

The Vasaath caressed her face, lovingly, ardently, as he said, “you have my heart, _menaan_. You, and no one else.”

The words were soft and warm, and when their lips met, Juniper wished she could stay in that moment forever. He kissed her tenderly, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She had no reason to hurry out to the others.

They kissed for a long time, just enjoying each other, before Juniper pulled away, much to the general’s dissatisfaction.

“I am thinking about staying in bed all day,” he said and placed his hands behind his head. “Care to join me?”

Juniper chuckled and sat up. “Tempting, my love, but there are still things to do. Many people still need help.”

He sighed deeply. “No rest for the wicked.”

She laughed at him and rose from the bed. The sun had risen, and the skies were finally blue after so many days of dark clouds. She looked out over the city, just waking up from its nightmarish two days of killing and carnage. It was strange, she thought, seeing the sunshine upon a grieving city, but things had to move along as usual. Her eyes were drawn to the glittering sea, where the sun hit the soft waves as they slowly made their way to the shoreline. The water was remarkably still this morning, almost serene, and it calmed her. Then, like a shadow on the horizon, something appeared, rising from the gentle curve. She squinted her eyes to see better, but it was just too far away. She stared at it, trying to see, and when the object was close enough, she saw that it was a ship. As is slowly moved closer, she saw the brilliant scarlet colour as the sun hit the sails. Her heart stopped. She turned to the Vasaath. “I… I think there are more of you coming.”

He sat up at once, his face set in deep thought. He did not believe her, that much was evident. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a ship with red sails coming this way.” She closed her hands over her chest, trying to still her racing heart.

He sprung to his feet, and in little more than one great stride, he stood by the window. Juniper followed his eyes back to the harbour, and from seeing only one red sail a mere minute ago, sail upon sail was now stretched across the whole horizon—it wasn’t just one ship, but an entire fleet, sailing their way.

Juniper felt all blood drain from her face. It was one thing hearing about the army, but seeing it was another matter entirely, like a wave of blood rushing towards the city. “What happens now?”

The Vasaath was tense and his jaw was squared. “Things are going to change.”

She had hoped that would not be the answer. Taking a deep and strengthening breath, she gazed out over the harbour again and watched as the ships came closer and closer to shore. Alarmed, she sought the Vasaath’s hand and took in in hers. The chime of the bell thundered over the waking city, as a fanfare to the approaching tidal wave, letting everyone know that the end of an era was truly nigh. The age of the Grey Ones had begun.

* * *

**End of Book 1**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading **The Grey Ones** , Part 1 of the _Chainbreaker Series_.
> 
> Please, be sure to leave a **review** and tell me what you think of this story. If you liked it, please leave **kudos**. 
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> Best,  
> Kokapoptotenon


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